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DEN  PHILLPOTTS 


THE  JOY  OF  YOUTH 


THE  JOY  OF 
YOUTH 


BY 

EDEN  PHILLPOTTS 

Author  of 

**  Widecombe  Fair,"  "  Children  of  the  Mist," 

"The  American  Prisoner,"  Etc. 


BOSTON 

LITTLE,  BROWN,  AND  COMPANY 

1913 


Copyright,  1913, 
Bt  Little,  Brown,  and  Company 


All  Rights  Reserved 


S.  Jf  Pakkbii.1.  &  Co.,  Boston,  U.S.A, 


C!BI?ARY 
UNIVERSITY  OF  CAIJFOi 
SANTA  BARBARA 


CONTENTS 

CHAPTER  PAGE 

I    The  Apollo  of  Tenea 1 

II    Of  the  Lovers 15 

III  Lunch  at  Vanestowe 25 

IV  The  Letteb 42 

V    A   Desebted   Husband 53 

VI    The  Painteb  Makes  a  Picture  in  the  Grass  .  61 

VII     Bad  Form 73 

VIII    The  Painter  Departs 88 

IX    Another  Letter 95 

X    The  Mind  of  the  Baronet 102 

XI    Ladt  Dangerfield  to  Loveday 116 

XII     Of   the   Crocuses 123 

XIII  The  Painter's  Contrition 128 

XIV  Departure 137 

XV    Loveday  to  Ralegh 143 

XVI     FiRENZE  —  Sunset 150 

XVII     Forgiven 157 

XVIII     Education   Attempted 165 

XIX    Vallombrosa 172 

XX    The   Studio 183 

XXI     Loveday  to  Ralegh 195 

XXII     Andrea   D'Agnolo 200 

XXIII  Ralegh  to  Loveday 207 

XXIV  The  Velvet   Fish 212 

XXV     "  Sunday   at   Home  " "     .      .  218 

XXVI    In  the  Cascine 232 

XXVII    The  Nbw-Bobn  Venus 242 


CONTENTS 

CHAPTER  PAGE 

XXVIII    LovEDAY  TO  Ralegh 254 

XXIX     Demeteb  and  Abbas 258 

XXX    Bebteam  to  Loveday 262 

XXXI     Michelangelo 268 

XXXII     Worry 278 

XXXIII  In  the  Hills 283 

XXXIV  Prometheus 299 

XXXV    Loveday  to  Ralegh 303 

XXXVI    Reality 308 

XXXVII     Bertram  to  Loveday 319 

XXXVIII    Loveday  to  Bertram 322 

XXXIX    Bertram  to  Loveday 325 

XL    The  Immensities 329 


THE  JOY  OF  YOUTH 

A  COMEDY 
CHAPTER  I 

THE  APOLLO  OF   TENEA 

Those  who  have  descended  into  the  east  room  at  the 
British  Museum  will  be  aware  that  copies  of  the 
world's  masterpieces  are  there  huddled  together  and 
displayed  to  very  inadequate  advantage.  Space  is 
lacking,  and  the  juxtaposition  of  the  pieces  is  such 
that  they  often  rob  each  other  of  their  finest  attri- 
butes. 

On  a  day  in  autumn  it  happened  that  a  young  man 
stepped  backwards  in  the  cast  room  to  obtain  a  bet- 
ter view  of  the  Apollo  of  Tenea.  The  result  of  his 
action  was  disastrous,  for  he  collided  heavily  with  a 
girl  behind  him  and  nearly  brought  her  to  the  ground. 

He  flushed,  bowed,  and  made  abject  apology;  she 
treated  the  incident  lightly,  and  took  it  in  good  part. 
He  was  a  clean-shorn,  athletic  youth  of  six-and- 
twenty,  with  a  clear,  broad  forehead,  dark  hair,  and 
keen  grey  eyes ;  she  was  four  years  younger,  and  dis- 
played unusual  beauty  and  distinction  of  carriage. 
Her  hair  was  of  a  light  gold,  and  her  eyes  were  brown. 
She  was  tall  and  rather  slight,  but  straight  and 
strong.     Her  mouth  was  beautiful,  and  her  expres- 


2  THE  JOY  OF  YOUTH 

sion  intelligent,  inquiring,  and  laughter-loving.  She 
laughed  now  at  his  embarrassment. 

"  Ten  thousand  apologies,"  he  said.  "I'm  so 
sorry  —  clumsy  fool." 

"  Not  your  fault.  There's  no  room  to  turn  round 
here." 

''Exactly!  You  feel  that  too?  It's  like  a  Campo 
Santo,  or  some  such  place  —  where  they  bury  the 
dead  in  one  another 's  laps  —  so  stuffy  for  them.  A 
sin  and  a  shame  to  stick  all  these  things  elbow  to  el- 
bow.    Don't  you  think  so?  " 

She  responded  without  the  least  self-consciousness 
and  rubbed  her  arm. 

"So  it  is  —  not  to  be  able  to  get  six  feet  away 
from  the  Nike!  " 

**  Ah!  you've  found  that  out?  Your  arm's  hurt- 
ing. What  a  wretch  I  am,  and  —  forgive  me,  your 
hat's  just  a  thought  too  much  to  the  left." 

Active  emotions  were  running  in  the  hidden  veins 
of  this  pair.  The  boy  w^as  an  artist ;  the  girl  lived  in 
the  country,  but  vaguely  hungered  for  all  that  art 
meant  and  felt  affinitj'-  with  it.  The  instinct  of  the 
creator  belonged  to  her  —  not  as  a  conquering  fire, 
but  as  a  pleasant  and  abiding  addition.  She  told 
herself  sometimes  that  she,  too,  might  have  made 
things  had  her  lot  fallen  among  the  makers.  She  was 
"VYcll  born  and  accustomed  to  a  society  of  conventional 
sort ;  but  her  soul  was  unconventional,  and  she  hailed 
this  meeting  gladly,  as  a  scrap  of  salt  to  uneventful 
days. 

"  Thank  you,"  she  answered;  then  she  looked  at 
him  without  concealing  her  interest.  "  You're  an 
artist,  I  expect?  " 


THE  APOLLO  OF  TENEA         3 

He  saw  that  she  was  a  lady,  and  felt  mildly  sur- 
prised that  she  should  have  any  more  to  say.  He  was 
also  gratified,  for  exceedingly  he  admired  her.  But 
she  little  guessed  the  amazing  frankness  of  the  per- 
sonality she  had  thus  challenged. 

*  *  Yes,  I  'm  an  artist  —  any  fool  can  see  that.  My 
eyes  and  my  hands  told  you,  no  doubt. ' ' 

The  other  began  to  wish  herself  away.  But  she 
was  amused. 

**  I  love  art,"  she  said. 

**  Do  you?  I  love  apricot  jam,  and  a  girl,  and  sev- 
eral other  things  —  not  art.  That's  too  big  a  busi- 
ness for  love.     Art's  my  life." 

"  Well,  you  can  love  your  life,"  she  said  quickly, 

"  Good!  "  he  answered.  "  You're  right  and  I'm 
wrong.  You  can  love  art  —  in  the  same  large  sense 
that  you  can  love  your  life  or  your  religion  —  if 
you've  got  one." 

"  I'm  an  artist  myself,"  she  deliberately  declared; 
but  he  regarded  her  doubtfully. 

"You  hardly  fill  the  bill  —  too  much  the  very, 
very  latest  thing  in  clothes.     What  do  you  make?  " 

"  Drawings  in  water-colours  and  short  stories.  I 
sold  one  for  three  pounds  once." 

**  A  picture,  or  a  short  story?  " 

**  A  short  story." 

"  They're  fearfully  difficult,  I  believe.  Probably 
it  wasn't  a  short  story  at  all.  Only  you  and  your 
editor  fondly  thought  it  was." 

**  That's  rude,"  she  said. 

*  *  Not  really  —  you  see,  a  short  story  is  so  rare, 
and  —  you're  so  young  and  beautiful.  No,  you're 
not  an  artist.    I  don't  see  the  signs  —  none  of  the 


4  THE  JOY  OF  YOUTH 

pale  cast  of  thought  about  you.  If  you  were  to  look 
very  closely  at  my  forehead  you'd  find  incipient 
lines  there  —  just  the  first  gossamers  of  that  spider 
of  intellect  who  always  spins  a  pattern  on  the  shop- 
front  of  the  brain  —  to  show  what's  doing  inside. 
Now,  the  interest  you  take  in  me  — ' ' 

She  gasped. 

"  Good  gracious!     I  don't  take  the  least!  " 

*  *  Yes,  you  do  —  I  happen  to  know  it  —  not  ego- 
tism on  my  part,  but  intuition.  I  feel  enormous  in- 
terest in  you,  so,  of  course,  you  feel  enormous  interest 
in  me." 

"  It  doesn't  follow  at  all,"  she  said,  preparing  to 

fly. 

*'  We  are  both  rather  fine  things  physically,"  he 
declared.  **  There  are  some  ripping  lines  about  you, 
and  the  latest  fashion  can't  kill  them,  though  it 
tries  to ;  and  as  for  me,  I  'm  in  the  style  of  the  Canon 
of  Lysippus  —  only  not  so  massive." 

They  were  passing  a  cast  of  the  Canon  at  the  time. 

**  I  got  ray  '  blue  '  at  Cambridge,"  he  said. 

"  My  brother  got  his  at  Oxford,"  she  answered, 
looking  for  the  exit. 

**  Don't  go  yet.  You're  the  very  sort  of  girl  who 
would  have  a  brother  who  was  a  *  blue.'  " 

"  What  did  you  get  yours  for?  "  she  asked,  still 
hesitating. 

"  The  Sprint." 

"  Did  you  win?  " 

"  Now  you  fail  of  tact,"  he  said.  *'  No,  I  didn't 
win.  Just  before  the  race,  the  Oxford  man  went  to 
the  photograjpher  and  said  to  him,  *  Stand  here, 
please,  and  photograph  me  as  I  break  the  tape.'    It 


THE  APOLLO  OF  TENEA         5 

was  too  much  for  my  nerves.  Pie  smothered  me.  He 
was  a  very  great  runner,  and  is  at  the  Bar,  I  believe, 
now.  That  man  must  be  a  success  at  the  Bar,  don't 
you  think?     Rather  a  bounder,  all  the  same." 

"  Was  he  called  Merton?  "  she  asked. 

"  He  was." 

"  Then  he's  my  brother!  " 

**  Oh  my!     Now  you'll  go  away!  " 

But  the  girl  was  not  annoyed.  Her  desire  to  fly 
had  apparently  vanished. 

"  He  is  rather  a  bounder.  He's  doing  great  things 
at  the  Indian  Bar,"  she  said. 

**  You  are  large-minded,"  he  declared.  "  How 
can  I  reward  you  and  prove  that  I'm  forgiven?  " 

She  looked  round  to  note  that  they  had  the  gallery 
of  casts  to  themselves.  Only  a  caretaker  sat  at  the 
entrance.  His  head  drooped,  and  he  regarded  an 
omphalic  button  on  his  waistcoat  which  had  hypno- 
tised him  into  a  slumberous  state. 

**  Tell  me  about  the  statues — ^if  you  know,"  she 
said,  greatly  daring. 

"  I  will.  Miss  Merton  —  proud  to." 

**  I  was  studying  the  Venuses. " 

"  Casts  never  give  the  expression.  Here's  a  Ro- 
man copy  of  the  Cnidian  Aphrodite  —  without  her 
tin  petticoat  from  the  Vatican,  thank  God.  That 
head  never  did  belong  to  her  really;  but  it's  a  beau- 
tiful head,  though  rather  fleshy.  I  like  the  Munich 
copy,  too;  that  one  kept  her  head,  at  any  rate." 

"  Which  is  Venus  Victrix?  " 

"  Here  she  is  —  from  Naples  —  a  good  cast.  She 
makes  the  Venus  of  Aries  look  homely.  It  is  as 
though  an  aristocrat  and  her  lady's  maid  had  un- 


6  THE  JOY  OF  YOUTH 

dressed  together.  Here's  the  Aphrodite  of  Melos  — 
of  course,  you  know  that.  Somehow  the  lighting 
makes  the  expression  wrong.  She  looks  sulky.  But 
she  doesn't  at  the  Louvre." 

"  I  like  the  Cnidian  best,"  declared  his  companion. 

"  But  Praxiteles  comes  off  badly  in  the  cast,"  he 
answered.  "  His  subtlety  and  texture  are  lost.  His 
technique  can't  be  copied  in  clay.  Have  you  been 
to  Rome?  " 

•*  No." 

"  Well,  believe  me,  there's  a  gulf  fixed  between 
even  the  copies  of  him  there  and  these  casts  of  the 
copies.  Take  the  Marble  Faun  —  the  inhuman  fas- 
cination of  it,  the  feeling  that  you  are  looking  at 
a  creature  quite  above  good  and  evil,  or  kindness 
and  cruelty  —  just  a  creature  from  another  world 
than  ours  —  that 's  utterly  lost  here.  This  is  merely 
dull." 

"  Now  I  want  to  see  the  Esquiline  Venus,"  she 
said,  and  he  took  her  to  it. 

"  What  d'you  think  of  her?  "  he  asked,  with  his 
eyes  on  the  statue. 

"  She's  a  darling." 

"  Well  done,  you!  So  she  is  a  darling;  and  so's 
Botticelli's  Venus  a  darling,  and  so's  Venus  Urania 
at  Florence  a  darling.  D'you  know  why?  Because 
they  are  not  Aphrodite  at  all ;  they  are  just  portraits 
of  delicious  women.  You  don't  call  Venus  Victrix 
a  darling,  or  the  Venus  of  Melos.  You  call  them 
goddesses.  But  this  girl  from  Eome  —  you  feel  she 
could  make  a  man  happy.  I  swear  she  could  make 
me.  She's  a  cosy  thing.  I  know  somebody  jolly 
like  her,  as  a  matter  of  fact.     She's  got  a  dear  little 


THE  APOLLO  OF  TENEA         7 

face  at  the  Palatine;  but  this  cast  rather  wrecks 
that." 

"Not  a  Venus  at  all,  then?  " 

* '  Not  she  —  a  portrait  —  close  —  precious  —  inti- 
mate and  human.  You  are  rather  like  Botticelli's 
Venus  yourself,  by  the  way  —  only  statelier.  Look 
at  the  Corritrice  over  there  in  her  little  vest.  That's 
a  copy  of  a  bronze  from  the  fifth  century  —  ages 
older  than  t'other  girl,  and  finer  really;  but  a  por- 
trait, too." 

'*  What  d'you  understand  by  Kuler  Art!  "  she 
asked  suddenly. 

*'  Ha  —  ha!  You've  been  reading  Ludovici,  or 
Nietzsche,  or  both.  Ruler  Art  interprets  the  past 
and  present  in  terms  of  the  future." 

The  girl  had  time  to  wonder  to  herself  before  an- 
swering. This  man  already  seemed  to  her  a  familiar 
incident  of  life.  She  felt  absolutely  at  home  in  his 
company. 

' '  That  sounds  all  right, ' '  she  said  calmly.  '  *  But  I 
wonder  if  there  is  anything  in  it?  " 

It  was  his  turn  to  start. 

"  By  Jove!  You're  jolly  interesting,"  he  an- 
swered. * '  Who  ever  would  have  thought  —  just 
passing  through  London  —  that  I  should  have  had 
such  a  bit  of  luck  as  you!  " 

"  Don't  waste  time.  I  must  go  very  soon,"  she 
replied.  "  Come  to  the  Apollo  of  Tenea  again,  please. 
I  was  humbly  trying  to  understand  about  it  when 
you —  If  I  were  a  real  modern,  I  ought  to  like  it 
better  than  all  these  Greek  splendours ;  but  I  don 't. ' ' 

"  More  don't  I,"  he  answered.  "  And  there's  not 
the  least  reason  why  you  should.     They  say  it's  not 


8  THE  JOY  OF  YOUTH 

archaic,  you  know;  they  declare  that  it's  the  expres- 
sion of  a  marvellous  instinct  for  a  new  and  sublime 
pattern  of  the  genus  homo  —  an  inspiration  that 
leaves  poor,  panting  Nature  hopelessly  in  the  rear." 

"  Men  might  come  to  it  —  if  they  took  to  wearing 
stays,"  she  declared,  flippantly, 

"  Never  mind  his  poor,  hour-glass  body.  Consider 
his  face.  Now  master  those  eyes  and  that  mouth. 
That's  archaic,  I  tell  you  —  if  every  expert  in  the 
world  said  it  wasn't;  and  if  you  doubt,  then  look 
at  this.  Here's  the  '  Hermes  carrying  a  calf,'  from 
the  Acropolis  —  the  same  face  —  the  very  same  1 
A  human  lifetime  —  seventy  years  —  separates  the 
works.  The  Apollo  was  by  a  late  sixth-century  artist ; 
the  Hermes  came  into  the  world  three-score  and  ten 
years  earlier.  Nobody  will  deny  the  archaicism  of 
the  first,  and,  allowing  for  the  ordinary  passage  of 
evolution,  the  second  springs  quite  naturally  out 
of  it.  Of  course,  they  are  nearer  Egypt  than  Greece 
—  very  beautiful  and  Ruler  Art  without  a  question; 
but  turn  now  to  the  Lysippus,  and  you'll  see  that 
the  Greeks  were  quite  as  great  idealists  as  this  sixth- 
century  B.  c.  chap.  Only  the  Greek  idealises  inside 
Nature,  and  the  Apollo  artist  idealises  outside.  At 
least,  that's  what  his  friends  say  he  does.  A  Phi- 
listine might  think  that  he  didn't  know  enough  and 
wasn't  idealising  at  all,  but  merely  trying  to  imitate 
a  human  being  without  the  necessary  power.  Any- 
way, to  tell  me  that  this  conception  is  more  glorious 
than  the  idealisation  of  the  Greek  —  it's  bosh!  The 
Greeks  never  created  a  principle  out  of  a  falsehood. 
Lysippus  and  Phidias  show  what  Nature  might  do 
if  she  were  as  great  an  artist  as  they;  but  the  man 


THE  APOLLO  OF  TENEA         9 

who  made  this  Apollo  is  teaching  his  grandmother, 
Nature,  to  suck  eggs.  She  can  beat  him  without  try- 
ing; and  what  sort  of  art  must  that  be  that  Nature 
can  beat?  No,  the  great  omes  give  lordship  and  au- 
thority and  divinity  to  human  eyes  and  hands  and 
feet.     That's  what  Egypt  never  did,  or  tried  to  do." 

She  gazed  whimsically  at  him,  and  her  expression 
fired  him  to  personalities. 

"  Take  yourself,  Miss  Merton,  what  would  a  Greek 
have  made  of  you?  He  would  have  seen  a  fine  head 
—  spoiled  for  the  moment  by  a  perfectly  grotesque 
head-covering,  like  a  kitchen  utensil;  but  still  very 
beautiful,  and  set  on  a  pretty  neck  and  lifted  above 
good  shoulders.  Then  a  bust,  neat  but  not  gaudy, 
as  the  devil  said,  and  breasts  set  low — " 

"  Good  heavens!  Do  people  talk  like  this?  "  she 
asked. 

"  Not  often  in  England,"  he  admitted.  "  But 
I'm  not  often  in  England.  I'll  stop  if  it  disagrees 
with  you." 

"  In  a  perfect  stranger  it  may  be  possible,"  she 
conceded.  "  Of  course,  if  I  knew  you,  it  would  be 
unthinkable. ' ' 

He  laughed  at  that. 

**  Doesn't  your  betrothed  talk  to  you  like  this?  " 

"  How  d'you  know  I've  got  a  betrothed?  " 

He  pointed  to  her  hand.  She  wore  gloves,  but  a 
ring  was  visible  through  the  kid. 

"  No,"  she  declared.  "  He  does  not."  Then  she 
laughed  to  herself. 

The  other  began  talking  again. 

"  So  remember,  Miss  Merton,  that  evolution  makes 
a  perfectly  natural,  though  modest  and  trifling,  stride 


10  THE  JOY  OF  YOUTH 

from  the  Hermes  to  the  Apollo ;  and  then  by  many  a 
toilsome  step  upward  to  Lysippus.  There  is  a  con- 
vention outside  Nature  that,  speaking  generally, 
means  Egypt  —  a  convention  that  always  stuck  in 
the  Nile  mud  and  never  got  any  forwarder  for  suf- 
ficient reasons ;  but  the  real  thing  keeps  inside  Nature. 
Only  it 's  much  easier  outside  —  so  many  of  the  little 
great  painters  of  to-day  are  keeping  outside.  Come 
and  have  a  bun  and  a  glass  of  milk. ' ' 

"  What  a  feeble  offer!  "  she  said. 

**  I  saw  you  were  a  country  girl,  and  thought  you 
would  feel  on  familiar  ground." 

**  Does  this  frock  look  as  though  it  had  come  from 
the  country?  "  she  asked. 

*  *  No  —  the  frock  would  be  up  to  any  devilries ; 
but  the  person  in  it  —  You  won 't  come,  then  ? 
Doesn't  that  show  you're  a  country  girl?  " 

*'  I  certainly  won't  come,  and  I'd  a  million  times 
sooner  be  a  country  girl  than  a  town  one." 

**  Quite  right;  quite  right.  You  wouldn't  glow  — 
like  a  ripe  filbert  nut  —  and  have  such  a  flash  in  your 
amber  eyes  if  you  lived  in  London.  May  I  see  you 
to  the  gate?  " 

*'  No  —  only  to  the  steps." 

"  I'll  show  you  a  thing  outside  that  will  interest 
you  —  more  Ruler  Art. ' ' 

"  Outside?  " 

**  Yes  —  bang  outside  in  the  rain  and  cold  —  here 
it  is  —  an  idol  or  something  —  New  Zealand  Ruler 
Art  from  Easter  Island.  I  like  it  better  than  the 
Apollo  of  Tenea  —  it 's  grander.  Don 't  you  think 
so?  " 


THE  APOLLO  OF  TENEA       11 

"  You  ought  to  have  been  a  schoolmaster,"  she 
said,  inconsequently. 

' '  Thank  God  —  no  necessity.  I  'm  a  creator ;  and 
I'm  rich." 

"  So  am  I,"  she  declared.  **  How  funny  that  two 
rich  people  should  meet  like  this  and  both  really 
care  for  art!  " 

"  And  how  horribly  sad  that  they  are  never  going 
to  meet  again." 

She  looked  at  him. 

'  *  Where  do  you  live  ?  ' '  she  asked. 

"  Where  could  an  artist  live?  At  Firenze,  of 
course. ' ' 

"  You're  a  painter,  I  expect." 

"  I  am." 

**  I  live  in  Devonshire,"  she  said. 

"  And  will  marry  a  Devonshire  man?  " 

"Yes." 

"  When?  " 

"  Oh,  in  a  year  or  two." 

' '  Have  you  ever  been  in  Firenze  ?  ' ' 

"  Never;  but  I've  often  hungered  fearfully  to  go." 

"  Well,  go.  Take  him.  I  don't  mean  for  the 
honeymoon;  but  now  —  this  autumn." 

She  laughed. 

"  He's  a  sportsman.  He  would  rather  shoot 
a  woodcock  than  see  the  loveliest  picture  in  the 
world." 

'  *  And  yet  you  call  yourself  an  artist.  You  ridicu- 
lous girl!  " 

"  Can't  an  artist  marry  a  sportsman?  "  she  asked. 

"  No,"  he  answered  decidedly.     "  It  wouldn't  be 


12  THE  JOY  OF  YOUTH 

marriage;  it  would  be  suicide.  Don't  you  bother 
any  more  about  art.  Extinguish  it.  Learn  about 
killing  things;  not  about  making  them.  What  part 
of  Devonshire  d'you  come  from?  " 

"  Near  Chudleigh,  in  South  Devon." 

"  The  deuce  you  do!  " 

''  You  know  it?  " 

"  Not  I ;  but  I've  got  an  aunt  —  an  old  Elizabethan 
sort  of  aunt,  who  lives  in  an  Elizabethan  sort  of  house 
on  the  edge  of  the  wilderness  of  Haldon. " 

"  Good  gracious!  Then  you're  Bertram  Danger- 
field?  " 

'  *  Hurrah !  —  then  you  can  come  and  have  lunch  ?  ' ' 

"  Most  certainly  I  can't,"  she  said.  "  Why,  Lady 
Dangerfield  —  she  has  never  a  good  word  for  you. 
But  she's  most  refreshing  —  quite  a  tonic  in  our 
dull,  out-of-the-world  corner." 

"  She's  lived.     When  are  you  going  home?  " 

''Next  week." 

**  Go  and  see  her  —  and  you'll  be  surprised;  but 
don't  say  you  know  me,  or  the  cat  will  be  out  of  the 
bag." 
I       "I  don't  know  you,  and  I  don't  think  I  want  to 
know  you,"  she  declared. 

He  smiled  and  took  off  his  hat. 

"I'm  going  back  now  to  study  Crocodile  Art," 
he  said.  ''  There  are  very  magnificent  things  in 
Crocodile  Art,  you  know.  Bound  to  be  in  a  nation 
that  made  its  beasts  into  personifications  of  its  gods. 
Why  not  come  back  after  your  bun  and  your  glass 
of  milk?  " 

"I'm  engaged  this  afternoon." 

**  To-morrow,  then?  " 


THE  APOLLO  OF  TENEA       13 

"  No  —  quite  impossible." 

"I'd  tell  you  all  about  the  Sekhets,  and  show  you 
the  most  weird  and  wonderful  of  them.  Great  cats 
mth  women  looking  out  of  their  faces  —  especially 
that  terrible  one  dedicated  to  the  goddess  Sekhet, 
'  Crusher  of  Hearts,'  by  Amen-Hetep  the  Third. 
From  Karnak  she  came  —  a  grim,  relentless,  awfully 
wise  thing  —  far,  far  more  than  a  black  porphyry 
lioness-head  set  on  human  shoulders.  She  smiles  at 
the  life  and  death  of  man.  She  wears  the  sun  and 
holds  the  symbol  of  life.  Full  face  she's  a  lioness 
—  side  face,  she's  a  human  hag  from  eld,  who  hides 
fearful  secrets  behind  her  inscrutable  eyes  and  lip- 
less  mouth.  She  tells  you  that  it  is  not  woman's 
beauty,  but  woman's  serpent  wisdom  that  crushes 
the  hearts  of  men.  Then  we'd  compare  the  Greek 
animals  and  show  how  and  why  they  are  so  tame  and 
trivial  contrasted  with  the  Egyptian.  "We  'd  work 
out  the  reason  for  that,  and  have  a  tremendous 
time." 

Her  heart  quickened,  and  she  answered  truly: 

**  I  should  love  it,  but  I'm  engaged  every  minute 
until  I  go  home." 

**  Good-bye,  then,  and  thank  you;  you've  taught 
me  a  precious  thing." 

**  I  taught  you?  " 

' '  Not  didactically  —  not  deliberately.  I  mean  the 
way  your  mouth  curves  when  you  are  puzzled  — 
heavenly !  You  ought  always  to  be  puzzled.  By  the 
way,  your  direction?  I  don't  ask  for  curiosity,  but 
because  there  are  some  points  that  must  be  cleared 
for  you  if  you  want  art  to  be  a  real  thing  in  your 
life." 


14  THE  JOY  OF  YOUTH 

"I'm  not  sure  that  there  is  room." 

"  Let  me  help  you  to  make  room,"  he  said  very 
earnestly.  "  Don't  let  life  crowd  it  out.  There's 
nothing  wears  like  art." 

She  hesitated,  then  granted  his  request ;  whereupon 
he  returned  to  the  Museum,  while  she,  feeling  hungry, 
actually  sought  the  fare  he  had  proposed.  And  as 
she  ate  and  drank,  the  girl  was  filled  with  a  nervous 
emotion  that  he  might  reappear  and  find  her. 

She  thought  about  the  painter  and  summed  him  up, 

"  Young,  horribly  proud,  good  voice,  thinks  noth- 
ing in  the  world  matters  but  art  —  jolly  to  look  at 
—  keen  —  strong  —  not  much  soul  —  egotistical. 
IMight  be  cruel,  or  might  be  kind.  Probably  both. 
His  eyes  are  lightning  quick  —  of  course,  that's  his 
trade.  I  wonder  if  he  can  paint,  or  only  talk  about 
painting?  " 

Another  thought  struck  her. 

' '  How  Ralegh  would  hate  him  —  and  yet  he 's  not 
really  a  hateable  man.  Perhaps  they'd  do  each  other 
good.  No,  they  wouldn't.  They're  too  dreadfully 
different." 


CHAPTER  II 

OF    THE   LOVERS 

LovEDAT  Merton  was  an  orphan,  and  lived  with  her 
mother's  brother.  Her  own  brother  laboured  in 
India,  but  his  wife  and  infant  dwelt  at  home.  To 
them  she  sometimes  went,  but  not  when  Foster  Mer- 
ton was  in  England.  The  brother  and  sister  did  not 
suit  one  another  temperamentally,  and  he  regarded 
Loveday  as  a  girl  of  weak  will  and  uncertain  purpose. 
Her  beauty  he  could  not  deny,  and  since,  from  the 
barrister's  standpoint,  it  was  her  sole  asset,  he  felt 
some  satisfaction  when  to  India  came  the  news  that 
she  was  engaged  to  be  married  and  had  made  a  very 
satisfactory  match. 

Sir  Ralegh  Vane  was  the  fifth  baronet,  a  man  of 
thirty,  strong  in  opinions,  established  in  his  values, 
sensible  of  his  obligations,  and  a  supporter  staunch 
of  the  old  order  and  all  pertaining  thereto.  He  had 
looked  upon  Loveday,  and  fallen  to  her  perfections 
and  vivacity.  The  vivacity  indeed  gave  him  pause 
sometimes;  but  he  pardoned  it  in  a  girl  of  two-and- 
twenty.  It  was  proper  at  that  age,  and  a  certain 
disinclination  to  take  herself  seriously,  Sir  Ralegh 
declared  to  be  a  charm  that  sat  not  ill  on  her  youth. 
That  it  would  vanish  after  marriage  he  was  assured. 
He  designed  to  wed  when  Loveday  was  four-and- 
twenty;  because  in  his  opinion  that  was  the  psycho- 
logical moment  for  an  Englishwoman  to  take  a  hus- 


16  THE  JOY  OF  YOUTH 

band.  The  man's  age  was  not  so  important.  He 
would  like  to  have  been  thirty  to  her  twenty-four; 
but  the  fact  that  he  must  be  thirty-two  did  not  seri- 
ously trouble  him.  She  had  a  thousand  a  year; 
would  have  more;  and  was  well  connected.  In  addi- 
tion to  her  personal  charm,  she  possessed  talent.  She 
could  play  the  piano  and  talk  German  and  French 
reasonably  well;  she  was  fond  of  literature,  and  dis- 
played a  trifling  gift  for  painting.  All  Sir  Ealegh's 
friends  praised  her  water-colour  drawings,  and  said 
that  they  ought  to  be  exhibited.  Of  art  he  knew 
nothing,  but  recognised  the  existence  of  it,  and 
granted  it  a  place  among  minor  human  interests.  As 
a  broad-minded  man  he  could  not  do  less ;  and  as  one 
who  believed  himself  concerned  with  the  things  that 
matter,  he  felt  that  he  must  not  be  asked  to  do  more. 
Art  might  be  very  well  in  its  place;  but  naturally 
its  place  was  not  Vanestowe,  the  seat  of  his  family. 
In  a  dell  of  beauty  under  Haldon's  western  facing 
downs,  the  first  Vane  to  distinguish  himself  had  lifted 
a  red  brick  mansion  and  decorated  it  with  white 
stone.  Four  square,  enormous,  uncompromising,  em- 
blematical of  the  clan,  it  stood,  and  round  about, 
thanks  to  the  third  baronet,  who  by  good  chance  had 
loved  horticulture,  a  rare  garth  now  spread,  enriched 
by  the  natural  features  of  the  estate.  First  rolled 
forest  lands  along  the  hills,  climbing  by  nar- 
row coombs  to  the  ragged  heaths  that  crowned  them ; 
then  an  undergrowth  of  azalea  and  rhododendron 
ran  like  a  fire  in  spring  along  the  fringes  of  the 
woods;  while  lower  yet,  after  some  acres  of  sloping 
meadow,  where  the  pheasant  coops  stood  in  summer, 
began  the  gardens  proper.    Here  were  a  collection  of 


OF  THE  LOVERS  17 

Indian  rhododendrons,  the  finest  in  Devonshire;  a 
dell  of  many  waterfalls,  famed  for  its  ferns  and 
American  plants;  a  Dutch  garden;  a  rose  garden; 
an  Italian  garden,  mth  some  fine  lead  statues  and  a 
historic  cistern  or  two;  and  a  lily  pond  of  half  an 
acre  fed  by  the  Rattle-brook,  a  Haldon  tributary  of 
Teign.  Then  came  the  mighty  walled  garden  of  ten 
acres,  the  orchard  houses,  the  palm  house,  and  the 
conservatory  —  a  little  palace  of  glass  that  rose  beside 
the  dwelling  and  was  entered  from  the  great  draw- 
ing-room. Twenty-five  farms  were  spread  over  the 
estate,  and  a  hundred  and  fifty  humble  families  re- 
volved about  it.  Sir  Ralegh  was  a  generous  land- 
lord ;  he  gave  liberally  but  exacted  payment  in  respect 
and  reverence.  These  he  demanded,  not  from  vanity, 
but  principle.  He  held  himself  as  a  natural  bul- 
wark and  fortification  of  the  State.  He  had  been 
born  to  his  position  and  educated  for  it.  Genera- 
tions had  contributed  to  model  his  mind  and  throw 
dust  in  his  eyes  as  to  the  real  issues  of  life  and  the 
trend  of  human  affairs.  Yet  he  strove  to  be  large- 
minded,  and  often  succeeded.  Justice  was  his  watch- 
word —  the  justice  of  a  Justice  of  the  Peace.  He 
was  a  clean  liver,  honourable,  highly  sensitive,  and 
absurdly  sentimental  under  his  skin.  His  mother 
still  lived  and  kept  house  for  him.  He  loved  her 
dearly,  and  believed  her  to  be  a  woman  of  exceptional 
insight  and  brilliancy.  But  she  was  far  narrower 
than  he,  and  imbued  with  a  class  prejudice  which  she 
concealed  from  him.  She  saw  deeper  into  the  com- 
ing social  changes  than  her  son,  hated  them,  and 
used  her  little  mop  secretly  to  stem  the  tide  as  much 
as  possible. 


18  THE  JOY  OF  YOUTH 

To  Sir  Ralegh  Vane  was  Loveday  plighted,  and  her 
affection  greatly  gladdened  his  days.  He  made  a 
stately  lover,  and  she  found  herself  quite  prepared 
to  take  most  of  the  problems  of  life  at  his  valuation. 
She  felt  very  kindly  to  the  poor,  and  lost  no  oppor- 
tunity of  being  useful  to  them.  To  be  anything  but 
a  Conservative  in  polities,  and  deplore  the  maladmin- 
istration of  the  Government,  when  her  side  was  out 
of  office,  had  not  occurred  to  her.  It  was  in  the  air 
she  breathed  at  Vanestowe,  and  at  her  own  home, 
distant  half  a  mile  from  her  lover's.  She  accepted 
Sir  Ralegh's  opinions  on  every  subject  that  did  not 
interest  her;  indeed,  only  in  the  particulars  of  art 
and  horticulture  did  she  rebel.  He  slighted  art,  and 
by  a  sort  of  instinct,  she  resented  that  attitude.  The 
more  he  urged  her  to  keep  painting  and  literature  in 
their  just  subordination  to  the  larger  issues  of  politics 
and  religion,  and  the  studies  in  economics  proper  for 
his  future  wife,  the  more  she  found  that  art  must 
occupy  a  large  portion  of  her  existence  if  she  were 
to  be  healthy-minded  and  happy.  But  she  kept  these 
convictions  much  to  herself  for  there  was  none  to 
sympathise,  none  to  advise,  none  to  prescribe  an  oc- 
casional change  of  mental  air,  none  to  feel  that  the 
atmosphere  of  Vanestowe  and  the  surrounding  country 
required  clarification  and  a  breath  from  without. 

To  Sir  Ralegh  art  was  make-believe  and  no  more  — 
a  decoration  of  life,  a  veneer  —  and  of  doubtful 
significance  at  that ;  while  his  betrothed,  at  rebellious 
moments  when  her  days  seemed  more  stuff}'  than 
usual,  was  tempted  to  feel  that  not  art  but  politics, 
morals,  religion,  and  all  the  interrelations  of  coun- 
try life  were  make-believe  —  a  mere  filmy  tissue  of 


OF  THE  LOVERS  19 

unreality,  against  which  art  and  the  beauty  of  nat- 
ural things  stood  as  sweet  and  ordered  and  lovely  as 
a  rainbow  against  dark  clouds.  The  need  for  con- 
trast and  change  existed  as  a  vital  demand  of  her 
life,  and  she  began  to  know  it.  There  is  no  hunger 
like  the  hunger  for  art,  and  Loveday  was  a  good 
deal  starved  in  this  sort.  Kindred  spirits  dwelt  in 
the  county,  but  she  knew  them  not.  No  machinery 
existed  in  the  neighbourhood  to  bring  fellow-feelers 
together;  no  free-masonry  to  discover  other  art-lovers 
was  known  to  Loveday;  she  possessed  no  divining 
rod  to  twitch  and  point  when  she  found  herself  amid 
unknown  men  and  women  at  balls  or  dinners,  at 
garden-parties,  or  those  cathedral  functions  to  which 
Exeter  occasionally  called  Sir  Ralegh  and  his  friends. 
Therefore  she  imagined  herself  a  phoenix,  and  was 
sorry  for  her  forlorn  distinction. 

Her  future  mother-in-law  doubted  these  aspira- 
tions, but  told  her  friends  that  the  girl's  vague 
yearnings  would  soon  vanish  after  marriage.  She 
did  not  like  Loveday  very  much,  for  she  discerned 
a  grave  fault  in  her.  Lady  Vane  took  her  class  too 
seriously,  all  other  classes  not  seriously  enough;  but 
Loveday  never  committed  this  error.  She  had  a 
sense  of  humour  that  Sir  Ralegh 's  mother  viewed  from 
the  first  with  suspicion.  Lady  Vane  held  that  it 
was  better  for  women  to  follow  the  rule  and  have 
no  humour  than  be  the  exceptions  to  that  rule.  To 
be  an  exception  to  any  rule  is  in  itself  dangerous. 
The  portentous  night  of  Lady  Vane's  gravity  was 
seldom  lifted  into  any  dawn  of  laughter.  Indeed, 
she  held  that  there  was  little  now  to  laugh  at  in  life, 
granted  that  you  had  a  heart  and  felt  intelligently 


20  THE  JOY  OF  YOUTH 

for  the  gathering  sorrows  of  the  Upper  Ten  Thou- 
sand. The  levity  that  Loveday  assumed,  rather  as 
a  shield  than  a  garment,  caused  Lady  Vane  uneasi- 
ness. She  argued  with  her  son  about  it,  directed 
him  to  inspire  his  betrothed  with  more  distinguished 
opinions;  doubted  when  he  assured  her  that  Love- 
day's  laughter  was  beautiful  to  him. 

"  Let  her  laugh  now,"  he  said.  "  You  used  to 
laugh  when  you  were  her  age,  mother." 

*'  But  not  at  the  same  things,  Ralegh.  She  laughs 
at  things  which  not  merely  should  she  not  laugh  at: 
she  oughtn't  even  to  see  them.  Her  extraordinary 
affection  for  Fry  is  in  itself  a  little  —  well,  stupid. 
There's  a  lack  of  perspective." 

Fry  was  the  head-gardener  at  Vanestowe,  and 
Loveday  found  his  outlook  on  life  a  ceaseless  de- 
light. 

"  Fry  is  rather  a  joy,"  confessed  Sir  Ralegh. 
**  His  ideas  are  wildly  unconstitutional  ^and  ridicu- 
lous; but  he's  never  vulgar,  like  the  Board  School 
taught  people." 

*  *  *  Vulgar  ' !  No.  Vulgarity  at  Vanestowe !  We 
have  not  sunk  to  that.  Vulgarity  to  me  is  spiritual 
death.  Fry  isn't  vulgar;  but  he's  apt  to  be  coarse. 
I  don't  blame  him:  his  work  on  its  grosser  side  must 
breed  coarseness;  but  Loveday  is  all  too  prone  to 
show  indifference  before  physical  facts,  such  as  the 
needful  enriching  of  the  soil  and  so  forth.  I  would 
rather  see  a  natural  shrinking  from  everything  com- 
mon and  unclean.  At  her  age  I  only  sought  the 
garden  to  cull  flowers,  not  to  dig,  like  a  gardener's 
boy." 

**  Better  that  she  should  garden  than  go  in  for 


OF  THE  LOVERS  21 

feminine  politics.  Better  that  all  girls  should  hunt 
and  shoot  and  fish  than  distort  their  outlook  with  all 
this  modern  trash  and  poison.  There  seems  to  be  no 
alternative  with  a  woman  between  mental  toil  and 
physical,"  he  said. 

"  Women  never  seem  to  do  anything  by  halves 
nowadays,"  mourned  his  mother.  "  In  my  youth  it 
was  such  bad  form  to  be  so  definite." 

Here,  then,  was  the  atmosphere  in  which  young 
Loveday  dwelt  and  the  man  to  whom  she  had  given 
her  most  heartfelt,  most  cordial,  most  enthusiastic 
affection.  A  gentle  home  she  had,  east  among  gentle 
people;  and  they  were  all  content  with  their  environ- 
ment and  desired  its  continuation;  while  she,  from 
time  to  time,  felt  a  call  to  escape  for  her  soul's  sake. 
She  knew  that  as  she  grew  older  the  need  for  these 
excursions  and  escapes  would  assuredly  not  lessen: 
and  once  she  wondered  whether  the  circumstances 
would  be  such  that  her  husband  would  share  these 
periodical  migrations,  or  whether  he  would  not. 
After  they  had  been  engaged  for  six  months  she 
discovered  that  he  would  not. 

She  loved  him  well,  and  he  loved  her  devotedly; 
but  his  love  would  never  make  him  take  her  round 
the  world,  or  change  his  own  conviction  that  his 
duties  must  keep  him  at  the  helm  of  his  affairs. 
From  time  to  time  he  sat  on  the  Grand  Jury  at  the 
Exeter  Assizes;  from  time  to  time  he  attended  shoot- 
ing-parties; and  that  was  the  extent  of  his  adven- 
tures from  home.  He  had  been  to  Eton  and  Ox- 
ford. He  had  subsequently  filled  the  position  of 
private  secretarj^  to  a  Cabinet  Minister  for  six 
months.    But  by  his  father's  sudden  death  his  career 


22  THE  JOY  OF  YOUTH 

was  changed  in  youth.  He  inherited;  accepted  life 
as  it  presented  itself  to  him;  administered  his  little 
world  to  the  best  of  his  powers  and  convictions. 

Loveday  counted  the  hours  to  her  lover's  kiss,  and 
she  guessed  that  he  would  be  at  Chudleigh  to  meet 
her  train.  Instead,  he  planned  a  surprise,  and  wel- 
comed her  at  Exeter,  that  he  might  drive  her  home 
from  there.  After  London,  Sir  Ralegh  always  came 
to  Loveday  like  the  scent  of  lavender  and  the  breath 
of  fax-off  things.  His  pale  blue  eyes  were  rather  sad, 
and  chance  imparted  to  them  an  expression  of 
thoughtfulness  which  was  accidental  rather  than  real. 
They  had  a  supercilious  expression,  which  libelled 
him,  and  they  looked  down  the  sides  of  his  high, 
aquiline  nose.  He  was  very  tall,  large-boned,  and 
of  a  florid,  fresh  complexion.  He  wore  his  straw- 
coloured  hair  parted  in  the  middle,  and  his  straw- 
coloured  moustache  described  an  imposing  curve,  so 
that  the  points  of  it  almost  met  under  his  chin.  He 
also  permitted  a  little,  old-fashioned  patch  of  whisker 
to  grow  forward  of  his  ear.  Loveday  hated  these 
decorations,  had  once  slighted  them  and  begged  him 
to  make  a  sacrifice ;  but  he  pleaded  with  her  for  them 
successfully. 

"  My  father  wore  whiskers,  and  my  mother  likes 
them;  perhaps  some  day  —  after  she  has  gone — " 

Whereupon,  of  course,  his  lady  declared  that  un- 
der no  circumstances  must  they  ever  be  mowed  down. 

Sir  Ralegh  moved  slowly  with  a  long  stride,  spoke 
slowly,  and  thought  slowly.  Indeed,  there  was  very 
little  to  think  about,  for  his  life  moved  like  a  ma- 
chine.    He  had   a  good   factor   and   two   assistants. 


OF  THE  LOVERS  23 

They  respected  him  deeply,  and  were  always  grum- 
bling at  him  among  themselves,  because  he  sided  with 
the  tenants  —  a  fact  the  tenants  actually  appreciated. 
This  course,  however,  played  its  part  in  postponing 
the  evil  hour,  and  as  Walter  Ross,  the  bailiff,  was 
now  a  man  of  five-and -fifty,  his  theories  of  ideal  per- 
fection in  a  steward  had  long  since  perished  under 
the  strain  of  practical  politics.  He  meant  to  retire 
before  ten  years  were  past,  and  hoped  to  be  dead 
ere  the  revolution  came. 

In  a  somewhat  violent  tweed  suit,  Sir  Ralegh 
solemnly  jolted  up  and  down  the  arrival  platform 
at  Exeter  Station,  consulted  his  watch,  and  presently 
told  a  station  inspector  that  the  train  was  five  min- 
utes late.  The  official  made  no  attempt  to  contra- 
dict him,  and  an  announcement,  that  the  sycophant 
had  doubtless  received  with  silent  contempt  from  a 
lesser  man,  was  humbly  confirmed  and  regretted. 

"  I  don't  know  what  has  come  over  the  Torquay 
express.  Sir  Ralegh,"  said  the  inspector.  "  This  is 
the  third  day  —  ah!  she's  signalled.  You  won't 
have  to  wait  any  time  now,  sir." 

Then  came  Loveday,  and  a  footman  appeared  for 
her  parcels  and  her  portmanteaux. 

They  were  seated  in  a  big  Napier  five  minutes  later, 
and,  having  cleared  the  city,  Sir  Ralegh  kissed  Love- 
day  on  the  mouth,  pinched  her  ear,  and  asked  her  if 
she  was  glad  to  see  him.  She  assured  him  that  she 
was,  and  he  talked  of  foxes. 

"  The  best  news  I've  had  for  many  a  long  day 
comes  from  Haldon,"  he  told  her.  "  Three  litter 
within  three  miles!     It's  good  to   feel,   though  the 


24  THE  JOY  OF  YOUTH 

world's  such  a  difficult  place  and  puts  such  cease- 
less pressure  on  a  conscientious  man,  that  cub-hunt- 
ing begins  in  a  month." 
"  Hurrah!  "  said  Loveday. 


CHAPTER  III 

LUNCH   AT   VANESTOWE 

Three  days  after  her  return  home  there  was  a  little 
luncheon  at  her  lover's,  and  Loveday  came  to  it. 
She  arrived  on  her  bicycle,  an  hour  early,  and  Sir 
Ralegh  met  her  at  the  outer  gate  and  walked  with 
her  through  the  woods.  Pheasants  cried  round  about 
them,  and  the  baronet  declared  that  he  had  seldom 
known  such  a  successful  year. 

"  The  spring  was  just  right  and  the  birds  came  on 
wonderfully  and  never  had  a  throw  back,"  he  de- 
clared. "  There'll  be  too  much  leaf  at  the  beginning 
of  October,  and  I  shan't  shoot  much  before  the  big 
parties.  Partridges  are  extraordinarily  wild.  It's  a 
bore;  I'm  not  shooting  any  too  well  this  year." 

**  Perhaps  you're  a  bit  stale,"  she  said,  but  he 
could  not  flatter  himself  it  was  so.  He  went  into 
the  possible  reasons  for  his  bad  form  at  great  length, 
while  she  listened  and  nodded  and  walked  with  her 
arm  in  his.  Knowing  that  she  loved  them,  he  took 
her  into  an  orchard  house,  where  yellow  figs  grew, 
and  watched  her  while  she  ate. 

"  Who  are  coming  to  luncheon?  "  she  asked. 

"  Only  the  IMisses  Neill-Savage  and  Nina  Spedding 
and  her  brother,  and  you  and  your  uncle." 

Loveday  made  a  face. 

*' I  hate  the  Neill-Savages." 


26  THE  JOY  OF  YOUTH 

"  They  play  for  their  own  hand  a  bit,  I  admit; 
but  they're  sound,  and  nowadays  merely  to  be  sound 
is  something.  We  shall  soon  have  our  backs  to  the 
wall;  but  united  we  may  stand  a  little  longer." 

"  In  politics  and  religion?  " 

"  Another  fig?  " 

"  No ;  but  they  are  lovely.  Come  into  the  potting- 
sheds.  Has  Fry  got  his  autumn  bulbs  yet?  I  love 
to  see  them  and  touch  them  before  they  go  into  the 
ground." 

Sir  Ralegh  laughed. 

**  What  a  gardener  you  are.  I  believe  when  you 
come  to  live  here,  you'll  want  everything  turned  up- 
side down." 

"  Not  I  —  everything  is  far  too  lovely  and  perfect. 
I  adore  things  just  as  they  are,  and  wouldn't  alter 
a  flower  bed.  You  know  that  well  enough.  But  I 
shall  spend  all  my  pin-money  on  plants  —  I  warn  you 
there.  In  plants,  this  glorious  garden  is  behind  the 
times,  and  nobody  knows  that  better  than  Fry." 

"  I  can  see  plots  and  counterplots." 

"  No  —  only  tons  of  new  plants  —  to  bring  the 
garden  up  to  date." 

He  shivered  slightly. 

"  Don't  use  that  phrase,  dearest  heart.  *  Up  to 
date  ' —  oh !  the  rich  vulgarity  of  those  three  words. 
They  always  make  me  shudder,  and  I  see  they  have 
crept  into  the  highest  journalism.  You  may  find 
them  in  The  Times  or  Spectator  any  day  of  the 
week." 

She  argued  against  him. 

"  Can  you  think  of  better  words  to  say  what  they 
mean?  " 


LUNCH  AT  VANESTOWE        27 

"  Certainly,"  he  answered.  "You  mean  that  pres- 
ently you  want  these  gardens  to  be  an  epitome  of 
contemporary  horticulture. ' ' 

They  were  alone  and  she  kissed  him  at  that. 
"  You'll  never  use  three  words  when  you  can  say 
the  same  thing  in  ten,  you  precious  boy!  "  she 
said. 

An  old  man  entered  the  orchard  house  as  she  kissed 
Sir  Ralegh;  but  it  was  two  hundred  feet  long,  and 
he  saw  not  the  lovers  until  they  had  parted  again. 

"  There's  Fry.     I  must  go  and  see  the  bulbs." 

The  head-gardener  of  Vanestowe  was  a  Shropshire 
man,  and  thirty  years  of  Devonshire  had  not  slacked 
his  northern  energy,  or  inspired  in  him  any  sort  of 
respect  for  west  country  labour.  He  was  broad- 
browed  and  broad-shouldered,  and  of  late  he  had 
grown  corpulent.  Still  he  worked  and  made  others 
work.  He  was  not  a  Conservative,  but  entertained 
a  passionate  regard  for  his  master's  family,  and 
never  permitted  any  underling  to  criticise  the  opin- 
ions of  the  house  in  his  hearing,  even  though  he 
might  agree  with  him.  His  hair  was  white  and  his 
eyebrows  were  black.  He  wore  a  beard,  now  grizzled, 
and  was  rumoured  to  live  night  and  day  in  a  blue 
baize  apron.  While  a  good  "  all-round  "  gardener, 
and  a  man  more  than  common  skilled  in  most  branches 
of  his  business,  Adam  Fry  regarded  himself  as  a 
specialist  in  tw^o  branches  of  horticulture  only,  one 
indoor  and  one  out.  He  claimed  expert  skill  in 
orchids,  and  rhododendrons  and  American  plants;  in 
expansive  moments  he  would  occasionally  add  apples ; 
but  he  did  not  deny  that  there  lived  men  who  knew 
more    about    apples    than    himself,    whereas,    where 


28  THE  JOY  OF  YOUTH 

orchids  and  rhododendrons  were  concerned,  he  did 
deny  it. 

Loveday  welcomed  her  friend  with  joy,  because  she 
had  not  seen  him  for  six  weeks.  The  autumn  con- 
signment from  Holland  was  overdue ;  but  Fry  had 
several  things  to  show  her.  They  fell  into  deep  gar- 
den talk,  and  Sir  Ralegh,  reminding  his  betrothed 
not  to  forget  the  luncheon  hour,  soon  left  them.  He 
liked  to  know  that  his  gardens  were  important  and 
his  rhododendrons  the  finest  in  the  country ;  he  also 
liked  to  hear  from  those  who  understood  the  matter 
that  his  gardener  was  a  pearl  of  great  price,  a  shin- 
ing light  and  a  tower  of  strength;  but  his  heart  was 
with  his  keepers  and  at  the  kennels;  and  he  felt  a 
passing  regret  that  his  betrothed  could  not  share  his 
enthusiasm  for  sport. 

"  To  Shrewsbury  I  went,"  said  Mr.  Fry  in  answer 
to  Loveday 's  question.  "  Yes,  miss,  and  never  hope 
to  see  a  better  show.  The  R.H.S.  couldn't  beat  it  at 
that  time  of  year.  Sir  Ralegh  let  me  spend  fifty 
pounds. ' ' 

"  He  never  told  me!  " 

"  'Twas  to  be  a  surprise.  Some  wonderful  fine 
things,  and  a  peat  plant  or  two  I  've  wanted  for  years. 
Out  of  doors  there's  little  for  the  minute.  The  new 
asters  aren't  no  better  than  the  old.  Dierama  did 
better  than  ever  before,  and  the  white  one  made  a 
stir,  as  you  remember. ' ' 

"  Did  the  seed  ripen?  " 

**  I've  got  three  pans  coming  on  brave." 

They  went  to  look  at  certain  new  purchases  and 
the  peat  lovers  nigh  the  fern  glade.  Here  rodgersia, 
gunnera,    and   rheum   spread    mighty    leaves,    while 


LUNCH  AT  VANESTOWE        29 

overhead  was  a  stir  of  grey  thrushes  enjoying  the 
ruddy  fruits  of  arbutus. 

"  How's  the  seedling?  "  asked  Loveday,  and  Mr. 
Fry's  face  became  animated. 

"  Beautifully  budded  up,"  he  said. 

'  *  You  Ve  waited  long,  Adam ;  I  do  hope  it  will  re- 
ward you." 

"  May  or  may  not.  With  a  seedling  rhodo  you 
never  can  say  nothing  sartain  till  after,  or  prophesy 
afore  you  know.  'Tis  like  a  child,  miss;  you  nurse 
it  year  after  year  and  hope  on  and  hope  ever;  but 
'tis  a  brave  long  time  before  the  boy  or  maid  comes 
to  blooming,  so  as  you  can  tell  the  quality  of  the  blos- 
som. ' ' 

"  Sometimes  they  don't  blossom  at  all,  Adam.'* 

*  *  Nay, ' '  he  said.  * '  They  always  blossom  —  for 
good  or  bad  they  come,  and  we  nurse  'era ;  but  we 
can't  always  tell  what  they  be  good  for  in  a  minute, 
and  the  bud  that  doth  promise  least  will  often  open 
into  a  very  proper  thing." 

Under  their  feet  was  a  green  carpet  composed  of 
hundreds  of  seedling  rhododendrons,  and  overhead 
the  parents  towered  to  noble  specimen  plants,  some 
forty  feet  high.  Here  were  Clivianum,  Aueklandii, 
Falconeri,  Roylei,  arboreum,  Manglesii,  Fortunei, 
campanulatum,  campylocarpum,  Thomsoni  and  the 
rest,  with  many  a  choice  hybrid  from  the  famous 
Cornish  growers  and  a  treasure  or  two  from  Irish 
collections. 

"  It  always  seems  to  me  a  sin  and  a  shame  that 
these  millions  of  babies  should  be  allowed  to  perish," 
declared  Loveday,  bending  and  picking  up  half  a 
dozen  seedlings. 


30  THE  JOY  OF  YOUTH 

"It  is,"  admitted  the  gardener;  "  and  if  Sir 
Ealegh  wants  to  do  a  good  turn  to  some  young  chap 
and  set  him  up  with  a  store  of  stuff  that  may  be 
worth  thousands  in  twenty  years'  time,  then  it  could 
be  done.  There 's  countless  young  plants  in  the  rhodo 
beds  and  rhodo  walk.  And  there's  not  a  shadow  of 
doubt  that  out  of  every  fifty  seedlings  —  seeing  what 
the  parents  must  be  —  you'd  get  a  treasure  or  two. 
You  only  want  twenty  years  to  come  in  to  your 
own,  and  in  many  eases  no  doubt  the  things  would 
flower  in  fifteen  or  less." 

They  inspected  a  certain  maiden  seedling  rever- 
ently. It  promised  well,  and  was  full  of  flower-bud 
for  the  coming  spring. 

"  I  hope  it's  going  to  be  your  greatest  triumph, 
Adam,  though  I  don't  see  how  it  can  be  lovelier 
than  Fry's  *  Silver  Trumpet,'  or  the  *  Sir  Ralegh.'  " 

"  Wait  and  see,  as  Mr.  Asquith  says,"  answered 
the  gardener.  "  It  'tis  worthy  of  you,  it  shall  be 
called  *  Miss  Merton.'  " 

"  No,"  she  said.  "  I  should  hate  that.  There  are 
thousands  of  Miss  Mertons  in  the  world.  You  must 
call  it  —  just  *  Loveday. '  There 's  only  one  Loveday 
Merton,  that  I  know  of." 

Mr.  Fry  was  doubtful. 

"  I  'm  with  you ;  but  Sir  Ralegh  would  think  it  too 
familiar. ' ' 

"  Not  he.    How's  Martha?  " 

"  The  missis  is  very  tidy.  Shropshire  did  her  a 
power  of  good  this  year.  There's  nothing  like  native 
air  sometimes  if  you  are  called  to  live  in  a  foreign 
one.  In  this  here  snug  hole  under  Haldon,  we  breathe 
cotton- wool  instead  of  air  three  parts  o '  the  year. ' ' 


LUNCH  AT  VANESTOWE        31 

*'  All  very  well  to  growl,  Adam;  you  know  that, 
after  all,  gardening  is  more  important  than  whether 
you  breathe  cotton-wool  or  not.  You  wouldn't  leave 
Vanestowe  for  the  greatest  garden  in  Shropshire." 

He  admitted  it.  Then,  far  away,  sunk  to  a  mere 
drone  in  the  distance,  a  gong  sounded. 

''It's  luncheon,"  she  said.  "  I  must  fly.  I'll 
come  and  see  Martha  later  if  I  can." 

She  ran  like  a  child,  descended  to  the  drive,  and 
met  a  dog-cart  flashing  up  it.  A  woman  drove,  a 
young  man  sat  beside  her,  and  a  groom  occupied  the 
seat  behind.  They  were  still  three  hundred  yards 
from  the  house,  and  Loveday  begged  for  a  lift. 

"  "What  luck,  Nina!  Let  me  jump  up  by  Joseph. 
No,  don't  get  down,  Joe.  Then  united  we  can  defy 
Lady  Vane.     How  is  it  you're  late,  of  all  people?  " 

"  Lost  a  shoe  at  Beggars  Bush.     But  am  I  late?  " 

"  Just  five  seconds,  no  more." 

Miss  Spedding's  famous  trotter  soon  brought  them 
to  the  ivy-mantled  door  of  the  house,  and  in  a  few 
moments  Loveday,  the  elder  girl,  and  her  brother 
joined  the  luncheon-party. 

Nina  was  a  showy  maiden  of  seven-and-twenty  — 
dark  and  handsome,  but  with  a  virginal  and  cold 
beauty  that  became  her  reputation  of  the  best  woman 
rider  in  the  county.  She  loved  sport,  and  endured 
much  secretly  for  it.  Immense  trouble  was  involved 
by  a  tendency  to  wealth  of  flesh,  but  she  fought  it, 
starved,  and  led  a  life  of  tremendous  physical  energies. 
Behind  the  scenes,  dumb-bells  and  exercises  filled  a 
large  part  of  her  time.  Her  brother,  Patrick,  showed 
the  family  failing.  He  w^as  fat  and  lazy  and  not  a 
sportsman.    He  made  no  attempt  to  fight  the  scourge. 


32  THE  JOY  OF  YOUTH 

He  had  congratulated  Nina  when  a  man,  to  whom 
she  was  engaged,  threw  her  over. 

"  Horribly  distressing;  but  a  blessing  in  disguise," 
declared  Patrick  Sped  ding.  "  She'll  worry  like  the 
devil,  because  she  was  really  fond  of  him,  and  it  will 
help  to  keep  her  thin." 

The  Neill-Savage  sisters  were  thin  enough,  as  be- 
came women  of  slightly  raptorial  instincts.  They 
suggested  able,  but  elderly  hawks,  who  made  experi- 
ence serve  them  for  the  vanished  activity  and  enter- 
prise of  youth.  They  were  both  turning  grey  re- 
luctantly, the  tell-tale  strands  being  woven  in  with 
a  sparing  hand.  They  were  very  poor,  but  well-born 
and  related  to  the  Vanes.  Their  lives  flowed  by  sub- 
terranean channels,  but  flashed  out  intermittently  in 
high  places.  They  practised  the  art  of  pleasing,  and 
lived  on  a  huge  circle  of  friends.  With  considerable 
genius,  they  planned  their  visits  in  such  a  way  that 
they  should  never  reappear  too  frequently  in  any  en- 
vironment. Their  orbits  were  prodigious.  They 
touched  all  manner  of  symptoms  and  contrived  to  do 
all  the  things  that  their  social  order  did.  Patrick 
Spedding  said  of  them  that  they  were  the  wisest 
women  in  the  world,  and  had  given  all  philosophy  and 
ethics  the  go-by.  "  They  have  discovered  the  art  of 
getting  everything  for  nothing,"  he  said;  ^'  they  have 
defied  nature,  which  has  always  asserted  that  that  is 
impossible;  and  incidentally  they  have  solved  an- 
other everlasting  problem  —  the  secret  of  perpetual 
motion."  The  sisters  were  on  the  Riviera  in  the 
winter,  in  London  after  Easter,  in  Scotland  after 
July.  They  varied  their  rounds  in  detail,  of  course, 
from  year  to  year;  but  their  scheme  of  existence  ran 


LUNCH  AT  VANESTOWE        33 

on  general  large  principles  which  changed  not.  At 
times  of  special  stress  they  disappeared,  and  it  was 
suspected  that  they  accepted  temporal  advantages  in 
exchange  for  their  social  significance  and  prestige. 
There  was  no  nonsense  about  them,  and  they  used 
their  connections  and  knowledge  of  good  society  for 
what  it  was  worth.  The  middle-class  was  a  healing 
stream,  into  which  they  occasionally  sank,  and  from 
which  they  emerged  refreshed.  They  were  now  fifty 
and  fifty-three,  and  no  men  of  their  own  rank  had 
ever  loved  either  of  them.  They  were  plain,  yet 
still  blessed  with  exceedingly  fine  figures.  They  had 
wondered  in  secret  why  offers  of  marriage  had  only 
come  from  well  within  the  fringe  of  the  middle-class; 
and  Stella,  who  might  have  married  a  rich  stock- 
broker, twenty-five  years  earlier  in  her  career,  felt 
disposed  to  regret  refusal  on  her  fiftieth  birthday. 
Because,  with  the  passing  of  mid- Victorian  society, 
had  also  passed  the  old  distinctions,  and  every  year 
now  made  the  Neill-Savage  stock-in-trade,  blue  blood 
and  an  aristocratic  connection,  of  less  market  value. 
They  moved  with  the  times,  however,  were  without 
illusions,  devoted  keen  intellects  to  the  need  and  fash- 
ion of  the  passing  hour,  and  both  played  a  game  of 
bridge  that  brought  them  invitations  from  eligible 
quarters. 

Lady  Vane  sat  at  the  head  of  the  luncheon  table 
and  her  son  occupied  the  foot  of  it.  She  wore  her 
hat,  and  Sir  Ralegh's  peculiarities  of  intonation  and 
gesture  were  exactly  revealed  in  her.  From  her  he 
had  his  distinguished  voice,  peculiar  glance  of  eye 
down  the  sides  of  his  nose  and  lift  of  the  eyebrow 
at  moments  of  reflection.     But  his  heart  came  from 


34  THE  JOY  OF  YOUTH 

his  father;  and  the  lady  lamented  in  secret  that  to 
her  son  belonged  a  characteristic  softness  she  had 
always  sought  to  combat  in  her  husband.  She  was 
a  Champernowne,  and  Loveday's  uncle,  Admiral 
Felix    Champernowne,   was   her   cousin. 

The  sisters  Neill-Savage  were  in  the  best  possible 
form.  They  had  just  come  from  Scotland,  and  were 
spending  a  week  with  an  acquaintance  near  Exeter. 
In  the  course  of  conversation  Sir  Ralegh  begged 
them  to  join  a  house-party  at  Vanestowe  in  January, 
whereupon  Stella  turned  to  Lady  Vane. 

"  How  nice  of  him;  but  I  know  what  men  are. 
Does  he  mean  it,  or  does  he  just  say  it  on  the  spur 
of  the  moment,  because  he  liked  that  story  about  the 
Duke  of  Flint?  " 

"  He  means  it,  I'm  sure.  You'll  be  doing  us  an 
enormous  kindness.  Ralegh  hates  bridge,  and  so  do 
I.  If  you'll  come  and  play  bridge  and  keep  the 
sportsmen  from  going  to  sleep  after  dinner,  it  will 
be  perfectly  divine  of  you  both." 

"  But  he  don't  hunt,  you  know  —  not  for  years." 

"  It  would  just  fit  in  before  Costebelle,"  said  An- 
nette, the  younger  sister.  *'  Your  place  must  look 
very  grand  and  stern  in  winter,  Sir  Ralegh," 

Loveday  thought  she  liked  the  Misses  Neill-Savage 
better  on  this  occasion.  She  always  pitied  threaten- 
ing age.  Now  she  talked  to  Annette  and  shared  a 
gigantic  pear  with  her  when  dessert  came. 

Admiral  Champernowne  discussed  family  matters 
with  his  cousin,  while  Sir  Ralegh  and  Nina  Spedding 
spoke  of  sport  and  the  rapacities,  not  of  reynard,  but 
the  farmers.  The  lord  of  the  manor  shook  his  head 
doubtfully. 


LUNCH  AT  VANESTOWE       35 

''  One  is  most  reluctant  to  grumble;  but  it  cannot 
be  denied  that  Bassett  and  Luke  —  to  name  no  others 
—  are  telling  fibs  about  the  destruction  of  poultry," 

**  The  farmers  are  so  mean-spirited  and  narrow 
and  horrid  about  hunting,"  she  said.  "I'm  sure 
your  generosity  is  the  talk  of  the  hunt.  There  was 
never  another  Master  who  did  so  much  himself." 

"  I  am  very  glad  to  do  it,"  he  declared.  ''  And, 
indeed,  I've  nothing  to  grumble  about.  I  hate  send- 
ing round  the  hat,  but  it  always  comes  in  full  when 
I  do." 

They  talked  of  horses  and  Miss  Spedding's  new 
hunter.  Sir  Kalegh  knew  its  sire,  and  was  very  anx- 
ious for  more  information  respecting  its  dam. 

Everybody  appeared  to  be  concerned  with  things; 
none  showed  any  interest  in  ideas.  But  it  was  Love- 
day  ]\Ierton  who  lifted  the  conversation  and  made 
Annette  talk  of  Italy  and  art. 

To  the  Neill-Savages  all  subjects  were  alike,  and 
many  years  of  experience  had  fortified  their  minds 
with  opinions  on  most  matters  of  human  interest. 
They  simulated  enthusiasm  or  aversion  with  the  ease 
of  artists,  and  none  knew  their  honest  convictions, 
their  real  hopes  and  fears  and  beliefs.  This  was 
not  strange,  because  neither  had  been  constitution- 
ally endowed  to  feel  anything  in  the  abstract.  Life, 
as  it  impinged  upon  their  experience,  alone  made 
them  feeL  In  matters  of  theory  they  could  always 
take  the  side  offered  to  them  and  agree  with  anybody 
quite  seriously.  Herein  lay  their  power  for  the  ma- 
jority. They  held  that  only  the  rich  can  afford  the 
luxury  of  definite  convictions ;  the  poor  must  charm ; 
and  to  do  so  with  any  sort  of  conscience,  it  is  neces- 


36  THE  JOY  OF  YOUTH 

sary  that  they  should  preserve  a  fluid  mind  and  wide 
understanding.  For  suffer  the  intellect  to  crystal- 
lise, permit  opinions  to  take  the  place  of  ready  sym- 
pathy, and  friends  will  begin  to  drop  off,  like  frost- 
bitten fruit  from  the  bough. 

Lady  Vane  talked  to  Loveday  about  her  visit  to 
London,  and  for  the  first  time  she  heard  of  the  girl's 
meeting  with  Bertram  Dangerfield. 

"  He  banged  up  against  me  in  the  cast  room  at 
the  British  Museum,  and  in  two  minutes  we  were 
talking  as  if  we  had  known  each  other  all  our  lives." 

"  Talking?  "  asked  Lady  Vane.  "  What  on 
earth  had  you  to  talk  about  to  him?  " 

"  Art.  He  lives  for  art;  and  he  doesn't  care 
about  anything  else.  It's  quite  extraordinary.  One 
would  think  it  was  the  only  interest  in  the  world." 

"  How  did  you  find  out  who  he  was?  " 

**  He  wanted  me  to  go  to  lunch,  and,  of  course, 
I  wouldn't.  Then  I  told  him  where  I  came  from, 
and—" 

"  Why  did  you  tell  him  that?  "  asked  Sir  Ralegh. 

"  I  had  to,  because  I  had  asked  him  where  he  came 
from.  He  lives  in  Florence.  He's  most  entertain- 
ing.    I  wonder  hoW  he  paints?  " 

"  I  can  tell  you,"  said  Stella  Neill-Savage.  *'  At 
least  I  can  tell  you  how  I  think  he  paints.  He  had  a 
big  picture  at  the  British  Artists  last  spring.  It 
was  a  classical  subject  —  in  the  Watts  style,  but 
very  different  colour  —  very  large,  very  simple,  and 
very  beautiful  —  at  least  I  thought  so.  D'you  re- 
member it,  Annette?  " 

"I  do,"  replied  her  sister.  '^  A  lustrous  thing 
with  plenty  of  rose  and  silver-grey  and  ivory  in  it 


LUNCH  AT  VANESTOWE        37 

—  rather  like  a  huge  Albert  Sloore.  '  Pandora  '  it 
was  called.     He  wanted  five  hundred  guineas  for  it." 

"  Good  powers!  A  boy  like  that  asking  such  an 
enormous  price!  But  money's  no  object  to  him. 
His  father  loved  art  and  left  him  a  fortune.  I've 
heard  all  about  him  from  Lady  Dangerfield.  I  think 
she  has  a  sneaking  admiration  for  him,  though  she 
says  he's  a  godless  reprobate." 

It  was  Lady  Vane  who  spoke,  and  Loveday  an- 
swered. 

"  It  came  out  that  he  was  her  nephew.  I  believe 
he's  plotting  to  come  and  see  her." 

"  Come  and  see  you  more  likely,"  suggested  Nina. 
**  He'll  want  to  paint  you  for  certain." 

**  He  was  funny.  His  eyes  are  like  lightning. 
He  saw  my  engagement  ring  through  my  glove,  and 
asked  what  you  were  like,  Ralegh." 

* '  The  cheek  of  these  artist  men !  ' '  cried  young 
Spedding.  "  Of  course,  he'll  want  to  paint  you,  as 
Nina  says." 

"  That  is  all  settled,"  answered  Sir  Ralegh. 
' '  Loveday  will  be  painted  by  —  probably  Shannon 

—  when  she  is  presented  after  our  marriage.  No 
pictor  ignotus  shall  libel  her  —  only  an  approved 
painter  who  has  won  his  spurs  —  an  Academician, 
of  course." 

"  Quite  right,"  declared  Miss  Neill-Savage. 
''  Some  of  the  moderns  are  atrocious.  Art  is  in  a 
flux  at  present.  There  is  no  law  or  order  in  any- 
thing, what  with  Post-impressionists  and  Futurists 
and  other  schools  each  trying  to  be  madder  than  the 
last." 

'*  We  hear  too  much  of  art  in  my  opinion,"  re- 


38  THE  JOY  OF  YOUTH 

plied  the  host.  "  I  see  everywhere  an  almost  in- 
solent demand  that  art  should  be  thrust  to  the  fore- 
front of  life,  as  though  it  were  destined  to  take  the 
place  of  the  real,  vital  interests.  I  must  say  the 
days  of  patrons,  when  artists  were  kept  in  their 
proper  place,  and  not  allowed  to  dictate  to  their 
betters  and  give  themselves  all  these  ridiculous  airs, 
appeal  to  me.  And,  mark  you,  the  masterpieces 
were  produced  in  those  days.  When  men  of  birth 
and  breeding  controlled  and  inspired  the  painters 
and  poets,  and  such  like  people,  then  the  best  work 
was  done." 

"  No  doubt  young  Dangerfield  is  arrogant  and 
ridiculous  —  like  all  of  them, ' '  suggested  Nina  Sped- 
ding,  and  Loveday  felt  compelled  to  fight  for  the 
absent  painter. 

"I'm  an  artist  myself  in  a  tiny  way,  you  know, 
so  I  declare  that  you  are  rather  too  hard  on  him," 
she  said.  "  He  is  arrogant,  but  he  isn't  ridiculous, 
and  if  you  are  to  judge  him,  you  must  hear  first 
how  he  stands  among  serious  artists  and  what  his 
opinions  are  worth." 

*' We  are  not  judging  him,  Loveday  —  far  from 
it.  *  Judge  not  at  all  '  is  a  very  wise  motto  for  the 
plain  man  before  all  questions  of  art  and  literature; 
but  doubtless  he  belongs  to  the  modern  movement, 
which  is  striving  to  put  art  in  an  utterly  wrong 
relation  to  life,  and  I  cannot  have  my  sense  of 
perspective  and  proportion  upset  by  these  claims. 
The  uglier  the  art,  the  more  noise  they  make  about 
it.  Artists,  in  fact,  like  all  other  people,  must  be 
kept  in  their  proper  places.  There  is  an  inclination 
to  dictate  to  the  nation;  and  not  content  with  stick- 


LUNCH  AT  VANESTOWE        39 

ing  to  their  last,  they  must  needs  make  themselves 
supremely  ridiculous  by  becoming  propagandists  and 
flinging  themselves  into  all  sorts  of  questions  that 
don't  concern  them." 

"  Art  is  undoubtedly  becoming  a  great  weapon  in 
the  hands  of  the  intellectuals,"  declared  Miss  Neill- 
Savage.  "  Art  for  art's  sake  is  a  cry  of  the  past. 
'  Art  for  life's  sake,'  is  what  they  say  now.  Art 
must  be  alive,  and  it  must  challenge  and  arrest  and 
give  to  think." 

''So  it  must,"  declared  Loveday,  "  and  why 
not?     Nietzsche  says — " 

"I'm  almost  sorry,  Loveday,  that  you  can — " 
began  Lady  Vane,  but  she  broke  off,  conscious  that 
it  was  not  a  happy  moment  to  chasten  her  future 
daughter-in-law.  She  was,  however,  irritated,  and 
soon  rose.  The  women  followed  her,  and,  when  they 
had  gone,  Sir  Ralegh  spoke  to  Admiral  Champer- 
nowne,  w^hile  Spedding,  who  was  a  familiar  guest, 
left  them  to  join  the  ladies  in  the   garden. 

* '  Why  will  Loveday  read  that  trash  ?  She  knows 
so  well  that  it  bothers  my  mother.  I  don't  par- 
ticularly mind,  because  one  cannot  combat  falsehood 
and  folly  without  mastering  the  wrong  motives  and 
false  arguments.  At  the  same  time,  a  woman's  mind 
is  so  easily  unbalanced.  They  lack  our  ballast,  and 
have  a  certain  unhappy  instinct  to  fly  to  ills  they 
know  not  of  —  witness  the  Suffragettes  and  anti- 
marriage  women,  and  their  last  developments;  but 
one  looks  on  to  the  future.  I  cannot  treat  her  like 
a  child  and  tell  her  what  literature  I  put  on  my 
index.     It  is  so  absurd." 

*'  She's    got    a    brain,"    declared    the    Admiral. 


40  THE  JOY  OF  YOUTH 

"  It's  unfortunate  in  a  way  when  a  beautiful  woman 
isn't  content  to  reign  as  women  used  to,  and  have  us 
at  their  feet,  and  rule  the  world  through  us,  with- 
out bothering  about  the  machinery  that  we  have  set 
up  for  our  own  uses.  They  throw  away  the  price- 
less things  with  both  hands  in  their  struggle  for 
our  paltry  privileges.  Loveday  is  certainly  a  little 
bitten  with  modernism.  But  I  do  my  best  to  steady 
her.  She  is  very  young,  and  won't  realise  that  she 
is  very  beautiful." 

"I'm  sure  I've  told  her  so  often  enough,"  said 
Sir  Ralegh.  "It  is  the  old  story,  Admiral.  Idle- 
ness always  tends  to  mischief  and  Satan  finds  some 
mischief  still." 

"  But  she's  not  idle." 

"  We  must  saddle  her  with  more  responsibility," 
declared  Loveday 's  betrothed.  "  Leave  this  to  me 
and  my  mother." 

"  To  you  —  not  Lady  Vane,  Ralegh.  You'll  for- 
give my  bluntness,  but  she  and  Loveday  haven't 
found  just  the  line  of  least  resistance  yet.  They 
will,  of  course;  but  your  mother's  —  well,  reaction- 
ary, you  know.  Quite  right  —  always  right,  for 
nowadays  if  you  give  the  people  an  inch  they'll 
'  go  to  hell,'  as  my  groom  said  yesterday.  You  can't 
be  too  cautious  —  still  —  it's  in  the  air  —  equality 
and  one  man  as  good  as  another,  and  all  the  rest 
of  this  infernal  nonsense.  Your  plan  is  the  wisest; 
Lady  Vane  is  —  but  I'm  on  dangerous  ground." 

"  Don't  think  that  we  have  not  thrashed  out  these 
questions,"  answered  the  younger  man.  "I  go  a 
long  way  with  my  mother,  but  not  all  the  way.  We 
must  be  prepared  for  changes  and  meet  them  in  the 


LUNCH  AT  VANESTOWE        41 

right  spirit.  Concession  and  compromise  are  the 
watchwords. ' ' 

The  other  nodded. 

"  The  sea  advances  upon  the  land,"  he  said,  "  but 
while  the  water  swallows  the  earth  in  one  place,  it 
is  the  business  of  the  earth  to  bob  up  again  some- 
where else,  and  so  restore  the  balance.  Capital  is 
not  doing  this.  The  ruling  classes  have  not  solved 
the  problem  of  how  to  give  in  one  direction  and  get 
back  in  another.     Now  my  theory  — ' ' 

Admiral  Champernowne  fired  a  broadside  of  pop- 
guns from  his  ''  three-decker  "  mind,  and  then  they 
went  into  the  garden  together. 


CHAPTER  IV 

THE   LETTER 

LovEDAT  received  a  letter  presently.  It  was  long, 
but  she  found  it  exceedingly  interesting.  None  had 
ever  written  to  her  in  this  strain  before;  yet  there 
was  that  in  her  to  welcome  the  letter  and  feed  upon 
it.  The  communication  came  like  a  light  upon  her 
vague  aspirations  and  nebulous  thinking.  It  fired 
her;  it  indicated  a  starting  point;  it  invited  her  to 
take  her  dreams  seriously  and  apply  them  to  some 
practical  end  —  if  only  the  end  of  self-culture. 

"  Medici  Club,  London. 
*  *  Dear  Miss  Merton, — 

"  I  love  art  above  all  things,  and  look 
to  it  for  the  rejuvenescence  of  the  earth  some  day; 
therefore  it  follows  that  I  could  wish  everybody  else 
did  the  same.  You  are  a  likely  disciple,  and  if,  by 
taking  a  little  thought,  I  can  win  you  to  the  fold  of 
the  elect,  I  shall  be  proud  and  glad;  because  you  are 
clever  and  beautiful ;  and  if  you  once  grow  en- 
thusiastic, you  may  justify  your  existence  and  be  a 
noble  inspiration  for  art  in  others,  even  though  you 
produce  none  yourself. 

"  You  ought  to  animate  a  glorious  picture  some 
day,  or  impel  a  poet  to  big  work.  So  I  want  to  help 
you  yourself  to  plant  your  feet  firmly;  and  I  want 
you  to  be  Greek. 


THE  LETTER  43 

"  They  say  the  Greek  spirit  is  dead,  and  that  it  is 
affectation  to  try  and  revive  it.  But  how  can  eternal 
principles  die?  How  can  a  creative  afflatus  founded 
on  the  logic  of  pure  reason  die?  The  new  energy' 
I  recognise;  but  it  does  not  destroy  the  old.  Chaos 
cannot  kill  cosmos,  any  more  than  the  supernatural 
can  smudge  out  rationalism.  An  avalanche  may 
bury  the  vernal  gentian;  but  time  will  sweep  the  one 
away,  while  the  other  is  immortal,  and  the  same  sun- 
shine that  melts  the  snow  will  revive  the  little  flower 's 
everlasting  blue.  No  truth  slays  another  truth,  and 
if  we  profess  and  practise  a  psychology  in  art  that 
the  Greek  knew  not;  if  the  Renaissance  brought 
forth  an  art  of  the  soul  that  was  foreign  to  Attic 
genius,  that  is  not  to  say  that  the  earlier  art  cannot 
still  flash  its  beacon  and  lift  its  ideals.  There  are 
a  sort  of  men  whose  instinct  and  habit  of  mind 
chime  with  the  old  order  —  the  men  who  base  the 
prime  of  human  achievement  on  reason,  and  who 
look  to  reason  for  all  that  is  most  beautiful,  serene, 
and  sane  —  in  the  future  as  in  the  past.  These 
men  are  Greek,  and  live:  Keats,  Landor,  Swinburne, 
Thorvaldsen,  Hewlett,  occur  to  me  on  the  instant. 
If  you  love  the  thin  mysticism  of  a  Maeterlinck,  I 
say  nothing.  If  you  like  Belgian  fog  better  than 
sunshine  on  the  Acropolis  —  well,  who  shall  dispute 
about  tastes?  If  the  eternal,  stuffy  miasma  of  sex 
attracts  you,  I'm  merely  sorry;  and  sorrier  still  if 
the  thing  called  *  realism  '  is  welcome  to  your 
spirit;  but  don't  reverse  the  old  maxim  and  praise 
the  present  at  the  expense  of  the  past,  after  the 
fashion  of  certain  affected  moderns,  who  shout  that 
the  heirlooms  of  the  earth  should  be  built  into  a 


44  THE  JOY  OF  YOUTH 

bonfire  to  illuminate  the  deformities  of  the  latest  men. 
As  for  *  realism  '  in  art,  it  becomes  such  a  dismal 
fetich,  that  one  has  to  fly  to  real  life  to  escape  from 
it! 

"  The  Greek  spirit  lives,  because  it  was  built  on 
the  sure  rock  of  human  reason,  and  —  be  there  gods 
or  be  there  none  —  reason  is  responsible  for  the  en- 
during things  in  philosophy  and  art  and  science.  I 
judge  that  the  new  forms  are  but  a  midge-dance  at 
sundown;  and  the  men  who  maul  marble  to-day  will 
be  forgotten  forever  when  the  names  of  Myron  and 
Phidias  are  mightier  than  now.  The  painters  —  but 
I  hope,  lady,  you'll  come  to  see  what  was  done  by 
certain  busy  men  of  Tuscany  before  a  Matisse  hood- 
winked the  elite,  or  a  Picasso  built  portraits  with 
bricks  and  extracted  the  soul  from  a  wine-glass. 
Surely  there  are  far  better  things  to  be  extracted  from 
a  wine-glass  than  its  soul?  And  how  roughly  time 
deals  with  these  modern  masters!  Soon  even  the 
Futurists  will  be  futurists  no  more,  but  mere  glow- 
worms of  a  forgotten  night.  Presently  we  shall  have 
a  new  Ruler  Art  of  the  nursery,  and  none  will  be 
allowed  to  touch  a  brush  or  pen  after  the  magistral 
age  of  five  years.  But  out  of  the  smother,  those 
things  that  we  saw  at  the  British  Museum  will  per- 
sist in  their  majesty  and  might  —  the  Parthenon  to 
an  ants'  nest. 

"  Don't  you  believe  the  people  who  tell  you  that 
we  go  to  paganism  for  form  and  to  Christianity  for 
colour.  The  colour  of  the  Greeks  is  gone;  but  it  is 
sufficient  that  you  merely  reply,  '  Titian  —  Turner.' 
You  can't  link  these  men  up  with  Christianity  if 
you're   honest  —  for  there's  not  a  spark   in  either. 


THE  LETTER  45 

Venice  was  born  of  the  Orient,  and  the  Orient  has 
no  use  for  Christianity,  and  never  will  have. 

"  So  I  beg  and  implore  that  you  go  back  to  the 
alpha  and  omega,  and  if  you  mean  to  study  art  and 
make  it  an  abiding  joy  and  delight  for  the  rest  of 
your  life,  let  it  be  on  the  Greek  values  —  neither 
before  them  nor  after  them.  Reflect  more,  and  have 
your  being  in  rationalism.  Keep  your  mind  clean 
of  superstition  and  sticky  prejudices  and  the  fatal 
religious  bias  that  has  killed  so  much  art  and  vitiates 
so  much  modem  criticism.  Superstition,  you  must  re- 
member, poisons  the  very  holy  of  holies  in  a  man's 
heart. 

"  Art  to-day  is  almost  entirely  in  the  hands  of 
the  lower  middle-class  (to  classify  without  snobbish- 
ness), and  nobody  in  the  least  realises  what  a  catastro- 
phe that  is.  You  can't  get  Ruler  Art  out  of  the 
lower  middle-class.     It  is  an  impossibility. 

'*  Take  our  own  Swift  or  Landor,  and  then  con- 
sider these  people,  and  you  will  say  again,  as  I  did 
just  now,  '  The  Parthenon  to  an  ants'  nest.'  In 
the  lower  middle-class  the  art-lovers,  of  whom  there 
are  many,  understand  the  best  in  literature  and 
pictures  and  music  as  few  among  us  do.  But  they 
despise  tradition,  and  know  no  reverence.  They  play 
the  piano  and  play  it  well;  but  they  play  it  in  their 
shirt-sleeves,  with  a  bottle  of  beer  beside  them.  And, 
remember,  they  are  proud  of  this  abominable  atti- 
tude, because  they  despise  tradition.  Do  you  see 
what  that  means?  They  simply  don't  understand 
coming  to  Bach  in  purple  and  fine  linen.  It  isn't 
in  their  blood  to  bend  the  knee.  Only  the  proud 
can  do  that.     They  lack  the  classical  sense,  and  pre- 


46  THE  JOY  OF  YOUTH 

tend  that  what  they  lack  must  be  needless.  They 
sneer  at  the  dead  languages  —  as  the  live  ass  sneers 
at  the  dead  lion.  Their  taste  in  art  is  often  austere 
and  fine;  but  their  taste  in  life  is  simply  hideous. 
Such  painters  and  writers  will  never  help  to  turn 
human  society  into  a  work  of  dignified  art;  they 
will  never  make  their  own  lives  masterpieces.  They 
are  formless,  remember  —  a  cardinal  sin  —  and  it  is 
in  vain  they  tell  you  that  the  chaotic  of  to-day  is 
the  classical  of  to-morrow.  Nothing  without  a  skele- 
ton can  endure.  Some  art  is  alive  and  some  art  is 
fossil,  but  everything  that  has  lasted  was  built  on  a 
skeleton  of  form  and  modelled  with  the  steel  of  a 
stern  selective  power.  It  has  been  said  by  a  very 
great  artist  that  *  to  stand  with  the  doors  of  one's 
soul  wide  open,  to  lie  slavishly  in  the  dust  before 
every  trivial  fact,  at  all  times  of  the  day  to  be  strained 
ready  for  the  leap,  in  order  to  deposit  oneself  into 
other  souls  and  other  things  —  in  short,  the  famous 
"  objectivity  "  of  modern  times,  is  bad  taste,  vulgar, 
cheap.' 

''  And,  what's  more,  it  isn't  creating:  it's  collect- 
ing —  as  the  miser  piles  gold  pieces,  or  the  biblio- 
phile, books.  And  the  resultant  pile  is  —  what? 
The  ants'  nest  again  —  a  formless  heap  with  every 
scrap  of  equal  value.  Formless  and  stuffy,  too. 
We  all  know  the  stuffy  writers,  and  painters,  and 
musicians,  and  actors.  They  lack  touch  and  taste 
and  the  selective  super-sensitiveness  of  the  real 
swells.  Don't  be  led  away  by  them  and  their  mean 
philosophies.  Remember  that  an  ounce  of  imagina- 
tion is  worth  a  hundredweight  of  observation  every 
time.     Observation  may  be  a  good  ladder;  but  im- 


THE  LETTER  47 

agination  is  a  pair  of  wings,  and  without  wings  we 
can  only  creep  and  catalogue. 

**  If  you  want  to  know  any  more  about  it;  if  you 
want  to  hear  of  the  art  that  stands  on  a  plane  a 
million  miles  above  the  things  we  mortals  call  ugli- 
ness and  beauty  and  truth  —  the  art  that  is  my  god 
—  then  I'll  go  on.  But  tliis  is  enough  for  a  start. 
I  shall  know  by  your  reply  whether  it's  worth  while 
writing  any  more  to  you. 

*'  Meantime,  believe  me, 

''  Yours  most  truly, 

"  Bertram  Dangerfield.  " 

Loveday  fastened  on  the  last  words  first.  '*  Con- 
ceited horror!  "  she  said  to  herself.  "  No,  indeed, 
my  friend,  you  won't  know  by  my  reply  if  it's 
worth  while  writing  any  more,  because  —  I  shan  't 
reply." 

But  she  was  not  ungrateful;  indeed,  the  letter 
awakened  many  moods,  and  in  some  of  these  the  girl 
felt  hearty  thanks  that  a  stranger  should  have  been 
at  such  trouble  on  her  behalf.  When  she  thought 
about  responding,  however,  certain  portions  of  the 
letter  barred  the  way.  He  had  implied  that  she 
would  be  more  likely  to  inspire  than  create ;  and  this 
was  hard  to  forgive. 

She  showed  the  letter  to  Sir  Ralegh,  who  read  it 
with  pensive  and  puzzled  eyes. 

'*  What  on  earth  does  he  want  to  say,  and  what 
does  he  suggest  that  you  are  to  do?  I  should  be 
sorry  for  you  to  go  as  a  pupil  to  such  a  harum- 
scarum   chap." 

"  But  you  love  the  Greek  things,  Ralegh?  " 


48  THE  JOY  OF  YOUTH 

'*  In  their  places.  They  have  their  stateliness  and 
classical  charm.  They  are  part  of  the  world's  wealth. 
I  have  read  the  tragedies,  of  course,  and  understand 
the  point  of  view.  And  he  is  right  about  Latin  and 
Greek,  no  doubt.  But  it  is  nonsense  at  this  stage  of 
the  world's  progress  to  talk  about  putting  the  Greek 
spirit  first.  He  ignores  Christianity  and  its  signifi- 
cance.    Worse,  he  distinctly  slights  it." 

"  He  would  hate  your  stags'  heads  and  tiger  skins 
and  things." 

"  Such  trophies  are  proper  to  the  decoration  of 
such  a  vestibule  and  hall  as  we  have  at  Vanestowe. 
Whether  this  gentleman  would  hate  them  or  not,  is 
a  matter   that   hardly   concerns   me." 

*'  He'd  like  the  leopard  skins  —  for  maenads  and 
bacchanals. ' ' 

"  I  see  a  danger  in  this  man,"  declared  her  be- 
trothed. "  He  talks  of  art  as  being  above  truth. 
Now  that  is  lax  and  immoral  and  unsound.  There 
can  be  no  excuse  for  nonsense  of  that  sort." 

"I'm  sure  he  doesn't  mean  it  for  nonsense,"  said 
Loveday.  "  He's  in  deadly  earnest.  The  question 
is,  shall  I  answer  him?  " 

''  Of  course,  you  must  acknowledge  it.  I  will  give 
him  the  credit  of  meaning  well  and  kindly.  He  is 
young." 

'*  Young  and  joyous." 

*'  Acknowledge  the  letter  with  thanks.  Tell  him 
that  his  theories  interest  but  by  no  means  convince 
you.  His  last  sentence  suggests  that  he  doesn't  quite 
know  how  to  write  to  a  woman;  and  yet  a  Danger- 
field  should  be  a  Dangerfield  —  even  though  an 
artist. ' ' 


THE  LETTER  49 

Loveday  laughed. 

"  I  expect  he  would  hate  to  hear  you  say  that." 

"Why?  " 

**  Because  he  thinks  —  I'm  sure  of  it  —  that  it  is 
a  much  finer  thing  to  be  an  artist  than  a  Danger- 
field." 

"  Yes,"  he  said.  "I'm  not  unreasonable;  I  can 
quite  imagine  the  young,  entliusiastic,  callow  mind 
capable  of  taking  that  position.  But,  believe  me, 
in  time  to  come,  when  he  has  seen  more  of  the  world 
and  had  wider  experience,  he  will  get  his  philosophy 
and  views  of  life  and  art  into  better  order." 

*'  But  he  does  stand  up  for  caste,  you  see,  and 
wishes  art  could  be  taken  out  of  the  hands  of  the 
lower  middle-class." 

"It  is  no  good  talking  like  that.  Art,  at  best,  is 
a  very  minor  matter.  It  is  the  things  that  count 
that  I  should  like  to  take  out  of  the  hands  of  the 
lower  middle-class  —  if  I  could.  One  views  it  with 
profound  respect  but  gathering  uneasiness.  The 
power  of  the  lower  middle-class  increases  by  leaps 
and  bounds.  They  are  the  backbone  of  the  nation, 
and  they  know  it." 

"I'll  answer  his  letter,  then?  " 

"  In  such  a  way  that  Mr.  Dangerfield  will  not  feel 
called  upon  to  elaborate  his  ideas  any  further.  He 
is  probably  like  most  quite  young  men:  he  mistakes 
feeling  for  thinking,  and  thinks  as  he  goes  along.  It 
will  be  time  enough  for  him  to  impose  his  opinions 
upon  other  people  when  they  are  a  little  better  con- 
sidered." 

Loveday,  rather  impressed  by  this  criticism,  pre- 
pared to  reply,  but  before  doing  so  she  visited  the 


50  THE  JOY  OF  YOUTH 

writer's  aunt  —  one  Lady  Constance  Dangerfield,  the 
widow  of  Bertram's  uncle. 

She  lived  near  Chudleigh  in  a  broad,  low  house 
surrounded  by  a  modern  verandah.  The  garden  was 
full  of  flowers;  the  verandah  had  been  turned  into  a 
large  aviary,  in  which  dwelt  fifty  birds,  some  musical 
and  plain,  some  brilliant  and  harsh.  They  made  a 
great  noise,  but  Lady  Dangerfield  chanced  to  be  rather 
deaf,  and  the  clatter  did  not  trouble  her.  She  was 
short  and  stout,  and  her  hair  slowly  relinquished  its 
original  sand  colour  for  silver-grey.  Her  eyes  were 
blue  and  keen;  her  outlook  cynical,  her  humour 
genuine,  but  of  a  saturnine  quality.  Loveday,  how- 
ever, was  a  favourite,  and  generally  won  the  lady 
to  a  more  benign  outlook  on  life.  She  read  her 
nephew's  letter  and  surprised  the  recipient. 

"  I've  heard  all  this  a  thousand  times.  And  I'm 
going  to  hear  it  all  over  again  soon.  He's  coming 
to  me.  Yes,  he  has  pretended  that  he  wants  to 
paint  me.  The  scamp  writes  that  he's  only  been 
waiting  for  my  hair  to  turn  a  nice  colour,  and  feels 
sure  that  the  time  has  come.  And  now  you've 
brought  this  letter  and  given  him  away.  How  silly 
he'll  look  when  I  tell  him  that  I've  seen  it!  And 
how  silly  he  '11  think  you  were  to  show  it  to  me !  " 

**  Coming  here!  " 

"If  I  ask  him.     Shall  I?  " 

"  It  would  be  lovely  to  get  a  good  picture  o^  you 
—  if  he 's  clever  enough. ' ' 

"  He's  quite  clever  enough.  He  amuses  me,  be- 
cause his  theories  are  so  lively.  One  may  indulge  in 
lively  theories.  It  is  only  practice  that  knocks  the 
bottom  out  of  thenii     There's  truth  in  this  screed. 


THE  LETTER  51 

The  world  is  soon  going  to  belong  to  the  lower  mid- 
dle-class; and  for  faith  we  shall  have  a  sort  of  mild, 
Marcus  Aurelian  free-thought  —  cotton-woolly  — 
close  and  rather  mean,  and  consequently  rather  pop- 
ular. The  lonely,  lofty  spirits  will  retire  to  caves, 
only  to  be  poked  out  and  hunted  to  death.  Bertram 
will  find  himself  like  the  hawk  in  the  poultry-yard 
presently  —  a  cork  on  his  beak  and  his  claws  cut  off. 
Then  he'll  have  to  change  his  theories,  or  be  pecked 
to  pieces  by  the  fowls  of  the  earth." 

"  He'll  live  alone  and  escape  the  traps,"  prophesied 
Loveday.     "  When's  he  coming?  " 

' '  He  says  next  Monday ;  therefore  it  will  be  sooner 
or  later  than  that.  Sir  Ralegh  must  ask  us  to  dinner. 
I  should  like  to  see  them  together." 

*'  I  do  think  he  might  give  us  all  some  new  ideas," 
declared  the  younger.  "I'm  sure  we  ignore  art  too 
much  in  England,  Lady  Dangerfield." 

"  They  order  this  better  in  France.  Here  people 
are  either  idiotic  and  hysterical  about  art,  or  else 
brutally  indifferent.     But  there  is  a  golden  mean." 

"  D'you  know  what  your  nephew  believes?  He's 
not  a  Christian." 

"  Who  is?  Who  believes  anything  when  it  comes 
to  the  test  of  labouring  or  suffering  for  it?  Look 
round  you  at  the  county,  D'you  know  one  man  in 
it  who  is  as  frightened  of  God  as  he  is  of  the  gout? 
Does  one  care  for  his  soul  as  he  does  for  his  stom- 
ach?    Not  one  man  —  unless  it's  your  man." 

*'  Mr.  Dangerfield  must  come  to  see  Vanestowe 
and  the  gardens  and  Adam  Fry." 

'*  And  you.     No  doubt  he'll   come." 

"I'm  afraid  he's  a  great  humbug." 


52  THE  JOY  OF  YOUTH 

"  Like  most  great  men." 

**  D'you  call  him,  '  great,'  Lady  Dangerfield?  " 

"  He  will  be.  His  father  was  so-so ;  but  his 
mother  was  one  of  the  cleverest  women  I  ever  met. 
She  had  Italian  blood  in  her  from  the  Strozzi.  He 
gets  his  passion  for  art  from  her;  but  where  he  gets 
his  power  from,  who  can  tell?  " 

"  Could  he  paint  you  with  your  dear  birds  round 
you?  " 

"  No  doubt  he  could.  A  charming  thought,  as  the 
birds  would  distract  attention  from  the  subject. 
But,  of  course,  if  I  suggest  it,  he  won't." 

Loveday  sped  away. 

"  Now  I  needn't  answer  the  letter,"  she  reflected. 
Yet  she  could  not  resist  the  pleasure  of  answering 
it,  because  she  had  thought  of  a  sharp  and  clever 
thing  to  say.  There  was  a  little  sting  in  it  —  a 
sting  for  his  sting. 


CHAPTER  V 

A   DESERTED    HUSBAND 

A  PRETTY  house  called  "  The  Cote  "  stood  a  mile 
from  Vanestowe.  It  was  the  residence  of  Hastings 
Forbes  and  his  wife,  Una.  Her  origin  was  obscure, 
and  about  her  there  were  no  indications  of  ''  L.D.," 
by  which  letters  Sir  Ralegh  and  his  circle  under- 
stood the  sacred  and  magic  words,  ' '  Long  Descent  ' ' ; 
but  none  the  less,  Mrs.  Forbes  had  won  the  hearts 
of  many  beside  her  husband. 

Women  liked  her  little.  Lady  Dangerfield  said 
that  they  could  not  forgive  her  for  understanding 
men  so  well.  She  triumphed  over  the  masculine  soul, 
hunted,  intrigued,  entertained,  and  kept  a  man  cook. 

Her  husband  was  tall,  handsome,  and  colourless. 
She  never  ceased  from  urging  him  to  do  some  work 
in  the  world,  but  it  was  not  his  ambition.  They 
differed  much  in  secret,  and  Mrs.  Forbes  had  been 
heard  publicly  to  say  she  would  not  have  married 
Hastings  had  she  known  of  his  incurable  laziness. 
He  was  interested  in  daffodils  and  golf.  Once  he 
had  gone  to  the  Pyrenees  to  collect  daffodils  and  re- 
turned with  thirteen  roots.  These  perished,  and  he 
trusted  henceforth  to  nurserymen.  To  please  his 
wife  he  undertook  the  duties  of  Secretary  to  the 
Haldon  Golf  Club,  and  it  was  in  connection  with  this 
institution  that  Sir  Ralegh  called  upon  Mr.  Forbes 
during  the  forenoon  of  a  day  in  October. 


54  THE  JOY  OF  YOUTH 

He  found  the  man  in  his  smoking-room,  huddled 
up  by  the  fire  in  a  state  bordering  on  collapse.  Be- 
side him  was  a  cellaret  and  siphon.  He  was  clad 
in  silver-grey  flannels  with  a  scarlet  tie,  and  on  his 
feet  were  violet  socks  and  white  leather  lawn-tennis 
shoes. 

"  Morning,  Forbes  —  why,  what's  the  matter  with 
your  hair?  " 

The  other  rose  and  took  the  hand  extended  to  him. 

'  *  Vane, ' '  he  said,  * '  she 's  run  away  —  my  wife. 
She's  always  had  scores  of  men  friends;  but,  of 
course,  I  thought  her  straight  as  a  line.  You  '11  never 
guess  who  it  was.  Forgive  me  if  I'm  incoherent. 
She  leaves  a  letter  for  me.  Alphonse  has  had  a  sort 
of  fit  about  it  in  the  kitchen.  There  has  been  no 
breakfast.  I  have  not  done  my  hair.  Naturally  you 
noticed  it.  The  cynicism  —  the  bitter  cynicism!  A 
bolt  from  the  blue.  In  a  word  —  a  dentist !  A 
wretched  dentist  from  Exeter,  I  believe  his  beastly 
name  is  Wicks;  but  I  can't  read  her  letter  very  well. 
She  doesn't  even  take  the  trouble  to  write  clearly. 
It  came  by  post  this  morning,  and  Alphonse  got  one 
at  the  same  time  telling  him  not  to  leave  me  for  the 
present.  He's  an  American  dentist.  I've  been  sus- 
picious, Vane,  because  her  teeth  are  absolutely  per- 
fect. She  met  him  last  year.  There  is  no  conceal- 
ment.    She  has  gone  to  Italy  with  him. ' ' 

Sir  Ralegh  was  deeply  concerned. 

**  Good  God!  My  dear  fellow  —  are  you  sure  this 
is  not  some  ghastly  fooling  —  some  terrible  mis- 
take? " 

Hastings  shook  his  head,  then  bent  it.  His  voice 
was  broken. 


A  DESERTED  HUSBAND        55 

'*  She's  had  enough  of  me,  I  suppose,  I've  always 
tried  to  be  sporting  to  her.  I've  always  considered 
her  tastes,  and  never  been  jealous  or  any  rot  of  that 
sort.  I  needn't  tell  you  that.  And  I've  always 
been  true  as  steel  myself.  I'm  infernally  honourable 
where  women  are  concerned.  We  married  for  love 
thirteen  years  ago.  She's  a  few  years  older  than  I 
am.  I  wanted  children,  you  know.  Vane.  I'm  fond 
of  children.  But  she  had  her  own  ideas  about  that, 
so  we  agreed  not  to  have  any.  I  wish  I  had  been 
firmer  about  it  now.  It  might  have  made  all  the  dif- 
ference. Of  course,  this  is  in  strictest  confidence. 
I'm  saying  more  than  one  ought  to  say  —  but  you'll 
understand.  Fancy  getting  up  and  not  brushing  one 's 
hair!  That  shows.  She  was  always  tremendously 
fond  of  masculine  society,  as  you  may  remember. 
She  liked  them  round  her  —  naturally.  I  never 
grudged  the  tribute.  It  was  a  compliment  to  me  as 
well  as  her.  But  —  impropriety  —  I'd  have  called 
out  any  man  who  had  whispered  the  word  in  connec- 
tion with  her!  I  never  dreamed  of  such  a  thing  but 
once.  There  was  a  stupid  kissing  scene  I  dropped  in 
upon  years  ago.  But  it  was  nothing  —  a  boy.  In 
fact,  I  may  say  I  trusted  her  implicitly." 

"I'm  awfully  sorry  for  you,  my  dear  fellow. 
Upon  my  soul  it  staggers  me,"  confessed  the  other. 
"  One  hears  of  these  things,  and  one  knows  they  hap- 
pen ;  but  to  have  such  a  tragedy  here  —  I  always 
thought  you  were  an  example  to  all  married  people. 
Your  home  seemed  built  upon  the  very  highest  prin- 
ciples of  reciprocity  between  man  and  woman." 

"  It  was  —  it  was,"  declared  the  deserted  husband. 
"  I  tell  you  this  is  the  most  shattering  and  unex- 


56  THE  JOY  OF  YOUTH 

pected  thing  that  you  could  imagine.  *  Affinity  '  is 
the  word  she  uses.  After  thirteen  years  with  me  — 
heart  to  heart,  and  not  a  secret  between  us  —  so  far 
as  I  knew  —  she  finds  an  '  affinity  ' —  a  dentist.  It 's 
adding  insult  to  injury  —  like  being  run  over  by  a 
donkey-cart,  after  you've  won  the  V.C.     A  dentist 

—  somehow  in  this  darkest  moment  of  my  life,  I  feel 

—  however — " 
He  rose. 

*'  What  did  you  come  for?  " 

'*  Only  some  trifle  about  the  club.  Never  mind 
that.  I  am  profoundly  sorry  for  you,  Forbes.  This 
is  a  crusher.  At  such  a  time  one  begins  to  measure 
the  worth  of  one 's  friends.  Don 't  forget  that  I  count 
myself  your  friend.  Command  me  if  I  can  do  any- 
thing for  you." 

"  I  know  it.  I  can't  thank  you  enough.  Un- 
fortunately the  world  is  powerless  to  help  me." 

"  You  must  get  free  and  then  face  life.  It's  a 
hard  stroke,  but  you're  well  rid  of  her." 

'*  There  are  wheels  within  wheels,"  murmured 
Hastings  Forbes.  *'  It  means  —  but  why  the  devil 
should  I  bother  you  with  the  thing?  I  can't  expect 
anybody  else  to  be  interested." 

"  The  details  are,  of  course,  sacred,  and  you  know 
that  other  people's  business  is  a  subject  very  distaste- 
ful to  me,"  answered  Sir  Ralegh.  "  But  if  I  can 
help  you,  the  case  is  altered.  Only  I  don't  see  how 
I  can." 

"  You  can't.  Nobody  can.  There  is  a  very  pe- 
culiar cowardice  in  what  my  wife  has  done.  It's 
fearfully  unsporting.  You  won't  let  it  go  further; 
but,    as   a   matter   of    fact,   she   has   the   money.     I 


A  DESERTED  HUSBAND        57 

haven't  a  penny.  My  total  private  income  from 
all  sources  is  two  hundred  a  year.  I  will  be  just 
to  her.  She  always  wanted  me  to  seek  work  with 
emolument;  but  from  the  first  she  knew  that  I  had 
no  intention  of  doing  so.  Constitutionally  I  am  not 
suited  to  any  life  involving  regular  mental  applica- 
tion. I  can't  help  that.  I  was  made  so.  It  was 
my  ambition,  therefore,  from  a  comparatively  early 
age,  to  marry  a  woman  of  good  means,  who  might 
need  my  help  and  care  in  the  administration  of  her 
fortune.  I  fell  in  with  Una  when  I  was  three-and- 
twenty  —  a  youth,  but  a  youth  with  an  old  head  on 
young  shoulders.  I  had  been  called  upon  at  my 
father's  death  to  face  poverty.  Vane,  and  the  ex- 
perience had  saddened  and  aged  me.  It  had  also 
disgusted  me.  But  Una  came  into  my  sphere. 
She  was  an  orphan  of  six-and-twenty.  One  need  not 
bother  you  with  her  life ;  but  you  can  bear  testimony 
to  her  charm  and  distinction  of  mind,  her  vivacity, 
her  repartee.  She  also  had  beautiful  thoughts  on 
religion  and  a  future  existence  which  naturally  were 
reserved  for  me.  At  least  one  always  thought  so; 
but  God  knows  now.  Fancy  having  secrets  with  a 
dentist !  I  feel  as  if  I  ought  to  shoot  him,  Vane.  But 
then,  again,  who  could  shoot  a  dentist?  " 

"  Don't  talk  like  that.  You  know  you're  not  the 
first  man  that  has  had  to  face  this  tragedy,  my  dear 
fellow." 

"  You  see  the  situation  is  so  involved.  If  I  had 
the  money,  it  wouldn't  matter  a  button.  And,  look- 
ing back,  I'm  sorry  I  didn't  let  her  have  her  way  and 
settle  a  thousand  a  year  on  me,  when  she  wanted  to. 
She  was  madly  in  love,  I  may  mention.     But  one 


58  THE  JOY  OF  YOUTH 

couldn't  do  that.  At  least,  I  didn't  feel  as  if  I 
could  —  then. ' ' 

**  You  couldn't  possibly  have  kept  it  in  any  case 
—  after  this." 

"No  —  of  course  not  —  unthinkable.  If  you 
knew  how  hard  I've  tried  to  please  that  woman, 
Vane.  I  was  a  master  in  the  art  of  looking  the 
other  way  —  utterly." 

Sir  Ralegh  began  to  grow  impatient. 

*'  Don't  dwell  on  the  past  now.  You  must  look 
ahead. ' ' 

"  I'm  doing  so.  I'm  facing  the  future.  Hence 
this  depression.  All  gone  —  wife,  means,  position. 
You  wouldn't  think  that  a  fiend  —  however,  so  it  is. 
She  doesn't  even  mention  money  in  her  letter." 

**  What  does  she  mention?  " 

"You  may  read  it  if  you  —  can.  At  times  of 
emotion,  which  are  almost  hourly  occurrences  in  her 
life,  her  handwriting,  like  her  voice,  gets  out  of  con- 
trol." 

"  I  wouldn't  read  it  for  anything,"  declared  the 
other.  "  I  only  ask  if  she  has  indicated  her  inten- 
tions. ' ' 

"  Her  intentions  —  her  present  intentions  —  are  to 
make  a  home  in  Italy  and  become  the  dentist's  wife 
as  soon  as  possible.  She  is  greedy  enough  to  add 
that  if  at  any  time  I  don't  want  Alphonse,  she  will 
be  delighted  to  engage  him  again.  Of  course,  she 
knows  very  well  that  I  can't  keep  him.  He  gets  a 
hundred  a  year.  He'll  go  back  to  her.  He  worships 
her.  One  feels  all  over  the  shop  after  a  crash  like 
this.  Really  one  doesn't  know  where  to  begin 
thinking.     I'm  sitting  here  just  as  if  I  was  turned 


A  DESERTED  HUSBAND        59 

into  stone.  Of  course,  she  may  change  her  mind.  I 
confess  I  see  a  dim  phantom  of  hope  there." 

**  Do  you!  Then  I'll  leave  you,  Forbes,"  said  Sir 
Ralegh,  whose  indignation  had  been  growing.  "I'm 
afraid  if  you  feel  that  under  any  conceivable  cir- 
cumstances you  could  take  your  wife  back — " 

But  the  other  was  testy. 

*'  My  dear  chap,  don't  preach,  for  God's  sake!  If 
the  woman's  got  the  money,  it  isn't  a  case  of  your 
taking  her  back;  it's  a  case  of  her  taking  you  back. 
I  admit  the  indignity.  It's  a  lesson  and  all  that. 
But  every  man  who  marries  money  has  to  put  his 
pride  in  his  pocket  from  the  first.  That  was  per- 
fectly easy  for  me,  because  I  loved  her  devotedly, 
and  perfect  love  casteth  out  self-respect,  and  every- 
thing." 

Sir  Ralegh  stared,  and  the  other  continued: 

**  No  —  perhaps  I  don't  mean  that  exactly.  What 
the  deuce  am  I  saying?  Leave  me,  Vane,  before  I 
lose  your  friendship.  I  have  your  sympathy  —  I 
know  that." 

'*  Be  a  man,"  advised  the  visitor.  "  You  are  not 
yourself  —  naturally  unstrung.  I  will  forget  this  — 
this  rather  impossible  point  of  view.  Forgive  me  for 
using  the  word;  but  a  great  shock  often  throws  us 
off  our  guard.  I  wish  you  had  a  mother,  or  some- 
body to  support  you.  Perhaps,  till  you  see  your 
lawyers,  my  friend,  Hoskyns,  the  vicar  at  White- 
ford  —  eh  ?  He 's  an  understanding  priest  and  has 
seen  life  in  all  its  aspects.  Good-bye  for  the  pres- 
ent. I  shall  not,  of  course,  mention  the  matter  even 
to  my  mother.  It  is  for  you  to  make  it  public  when 
you  choose.     But  be  a  man.     If  she  was  that  sort,  she 


60  THE  JOY  OF  YOUTH 

is  better  away.  You  have  your  life  before  you. 
Thirty-six  is  nothing,  after  all." 

"  It's  far  too  old  to  begin  to  work,  anyway.  But 
thank  you  for  what  you've  said,  Vane.  I  appreciate 
your  kindness  more  than  words  can  tell.  I  shall 
spend  the  rest  of  my  day  writing  to  her.  And  — 
and  —  will  you  ask  me  to  lunch  or  dinner  or  some- 
thing presently  —  just  to  show  you're  on  my  side? 
Of  course,  there  will  be  plenty  of  people  to  say  she 
fled  in  self-defence  from  a  brute  and  all  that  sort 
of  thing—" 

"  If  you're  equal  to  it,  come  by  all  means.  Drop 
in  to  dinner  on  Thursday.  There's  a  nephew  of 
Lady  Dangerfield 's  coming  —  a  sort  of  protege  of 
my  betrothed  —  a  painter  chap." 

"No  —  that 's  not  the  right  atmosphere  for  the  mo- 
ment," said  Mr,  Forbes,  "  Art  and  lawlessness  are 
synonymous  terms  in  my  opinion.  She'll  probably 
find  that  nobody  thinks  any  the  worse  of  her  in 
Italy  —  that's  why  she's  gone  there.  I  shall  write  to 
her  at  great  length.  It  will  be  the  deuce  of  a  letter ; 
but  an  appeal  to  the  past  must  be  made.  It's  neck 
or  nothing." 

"  Good-bye,  good-bye.  And  take  a  higher  tone  if 
you  want  to  keep  the  respect  of  your  acquaintance 
in  this  trial,"  said  Sir  Ralegh. 

He  departed  indignant  and  a  good  deal  astonished, 
but  not  in  the  least  amused. 


CHAPTER  VI 

THE   PAINTER    MAKES   A   PICTURE   IN    THE   GRASS 

When  next  Loveday  went  to  Bickley  Lodge,  the 
home  of  Lady  Dangerfield,  she  was  called  to  the 
verandah  to  find  her  friend  in  the  hands  of 
^the  painter.  The  old  woman  sat  against  a  back- 
ground of  a  silver-grey  shawl  hung  over  a  screen,  and 
beside  her,  upon  his  pole,  stood  her  favourite  macaw 
—  a  heavy-beaked  parrot  plumed  with  dark  blue  and 
orange. 

Bertram  Dangerfield  was  drawing  in  charcoal  on 
a  big  canvas. 

''  Don't  move,  Aunt  Constance,"  he  said.  Then  he 
rose,  dusted  his  fingers,  and  shook  hands  with  Love- 
day.  He  treated  her  as  though  he  had  known  her 
all  his  life  and  seen  her  the  day  before. 

"  How  d'you  do?  Isn't  this  a  splendid  subject? 
Do  look  at  them  from  here.  My  angel  of  an  aunt 
has  promised  ten  sittings.  D'you  see  how  the  splash 
of  the  parrot  will  weigh  against  the  work-basket  and 
silk.     The  colour  makes  my  mouth  water." 

"  May  I  watch  you,  or  would  you  rather  I  went 
away?  " 

*'  "Watch  by  all  means,  but  don't  talk.  I  like  my 
sitter  to  talk  all  the  time,  but  nobody  else.  Go  on 
talking,  Aunt  Constance,  please." 

**  The  wretch  considers  my  hair  now  paintable," 


62  THE  JOY  OF  YOUTH 

said  Lady  Dangerfield.  "  And  he  likes  the  light 
here,  and  he  likes  the  macaw,  and  he  makes  me  wear 
this  dress,  which  is  far  too  thin  for  my  comfort.  But 
what  cares  he  if  a  work  of  art  is  the  result?  Let 
him  have  his  ten  sittings  —  and  let  me  have  pneu- 
monia." 

"  You  won't  get  pneumonia,"  declared  Bertram. 
"  Drink  a  glass  of  cherry-brandy  every  half-hour  and 
you'll  be  all  right.  But  we  may  have  to  kill  the 
macaw  and  stuff  him,  I'm  afraid  —  if  he  will  shriek 
so.     It's  a  fiendish  noise,  and  makes  my  hand  shake." 

"  You'd  like  to  kill  me  and  stuff  me  too,  I  dare 
say,"  declared  the  sitter. 

'  *  No,  no  —  miunmies  are  horrid  things.  I 
shouldn't  like  you  as  a  mummy,  Aunt  Constance. 
You  shall  live  forever  in  your  picture.  It's  going 
to  knock  Whistler's  *  Portrait  of  his  Mother  '  into 
a  cocked  hat." 

He  turned  to  Loveday. 

"  Another  example  of  the  Super-bounder  in  art," 
he  said.  '*  A  genius,  but  a  fearfully  trying  person- 
ality. Few  great  artists  are  great  men  —  perhaps 
you've  noticed  that?  " 

"  To  be  a  great  artist  is  to  be  a  great  man,"  de- 
clared Loveday;  but  he  would  not  grant  this. 

"  Not  at  all.  You  can  produce  greatness  without 
being  great.  You'll  think  I'm  going  back  on  my 
letter  and  not  putting  art  before  everything ;  but  I  'm 
not.  My  idea  of  a  great  man —  Steady,  Aunt 
Constance!     You've   dropped   your  head   an   inch." 

"I'm  getting  tired,"  she  said. 

* '  Not  a  bit  of  good  dreaming  of  getting  tired  yet, ' ' 
he  told  her.     '  *  You  shall  see  the  drawing  in  —  say 


A  PICTURE  IN  THE  GRASS     63 

an  hour.  That  will  cheer  you  up.  You  don't  know 
how  interesting  you  are." 

"  May  Loveday  read  to  me,  then?  " 

"I'd  much  sooner  you  talked  than  listened." 

**  How  can  anybody  talk  with  you  here?  "  she 
said.     Then  she  spoke  with  the  girl: 

"  Does  Sir  Ralegh  know  that  Bertram  has  ar- 
rived? " 

*'  Yes,"  said  Loveday,  "  and  he's  going  to  ask  you 
both  to  dinner,  if  you'll  come.  And  he  wanted  to 
know  if  Mr.  Dangerfield  shot.  And  I  told  him  I 
didn't  think  so." 

"  What  did  he  say  of  my  letter  to  you?  "  asked 
the  artist. 

"  How  d'you  know  I  showed  it  to  him?  "  she 
asked. 

"  I  guessed  you  would." 

**  He  thought  you  didn't  take  me  seriously 
enough." 

"  Sorry." 

"  Did  you  like  my  letter?  "  asked  Loveday  in  her 
turn. 

**  Adored  it.  That  was  a  splendid  score  off  me. 
Now  we  must  really  be  quiet,  or  my  aunt  surely  will 
go  to  sleep.  I  believe  she'd  look  rather  jolly 
asleep." 

"  You  order  me  to  talk,"  said  Lady  Dangerfield, 
"  and  then  buzz,  like  a  bee  in  a  bottle,  your  stupid 
self.  You  scorn  the  country;  but  let  me  tell  you 
that  we  are  very  advanced  and  independent  people. 
We  have  a  secretary  of  the  golf  club,  and  his  wife 
has  just  run  away  from  him  with  an  American  den- 
tist." 


64,  THE  JOY  OF  YOUTH 

' '  Well  done,  Chudleigh !  ' '  cried  the  painter. 
"  Chudleigh  is  certainly  creeping  up." 

' '  A  most  charming  woman  —  in  fact,  the  only 
charming  woman  within  a  radius  of  five-and-twenty 
miles  —  except  Loveday.  There  is,  however,  a  dark 
lining  to  the  silver  cloud:  he  was  my  dentist.  They 
won't  be  happy  for  more  than  three  months,  I  hope. 
He  was  so  passionately  attached  to  his  work  —  quite 
as  much  an  artist  as  you  are." 

"  Modern  dentists  are." 

"  And,  as  Una  Forbes  truly  wrote  to  me,  she  didn't 
run  away  with  a  dentist,  but  with  a  man.  It  can't 
last,  however,  because  the  dentist  will  triumph  over 
the  man,  or,  to  put  it  poetically,  the  artist  will  tri- 
umph over  the  lover.  That's  always  the  tragical  end 
of  these  affairs.  To  things  like  you  —  art  is  your 
real  wife  —  women  are  only  mistresses  —  the  best  of 
them." 

"  But  Lady  Dangerfield, "  began  Loveday;  where- 
upon the  man  silenced  her. 

"  I  implore  you,  Miss  Merton,  let  my  sitter  talk, 
if  you  love  art." 

Loveday  leaned  back  obediently. 

"  Artists,"  continued  the  old  lady,  "  what  are 
they?  Everything  but  stable,  or  trustworthy,  or 
steadfast.  Change  is  the  breath  in  their  nostrils,  and 
novelty  the  very  blood  in  their  veins.  They  are 
happy  in  the  beginning  —  like  this  boy  here  —  while 
the  world  is  before  them  to  conquer ;  but,  as  the  years 
roll  over  their  heads,  and  the  things  to  be  done  are 
not  done,  and  things  that  are  done  are  failures;  as 
the  time  gets  shorter  and  art  gets  longer,  and  the 
smiling,  coy  sweetheart  becomes  the  stern,  insatiable 


A  PICTURE  IN  THE  GRASS     65 

tyrant  —  why,  darkness  descends  upon  them,  and 
sadness  and  the — " 

"Don't!"  cried  Bertram.  ''It's  too  beastly  of 
you!  This  is  going  to  be  a  picture  of  smiling  and 
contented  old  age,  with  prosperity  suggested  by  the 
golden  macaw  and  dignity  by  the  crown  of  silver. 
If  you  wanted  me  to  paint  you  as  a  sibyl,  or  prophet- 
ess of  Hecate,  or  something  of  that  sort,  we  must  be- 
gin all  over  again.  Talk  about  the  joy  of  youth  to 
us,  and  let  Miss  Merton  and  me  be  happy  while  we 
can.  What  is  the  chap  like  who  has  just  lost  his 
wife?  " 

"  Charming,"  answered  the  sitter.  "  I  never  hope 
to  meet  a  more  sympathetic  person.  In  fact,  too  sym- 
pathetic for  a  man.  Still  —  quite  charming.  I'm 
very  sorry  for  him.  He  feels  it  acutely.  He  told 
me  the  whole  story  last  week.  The  heart  of  the  com- 
plication lies  in  the  fact  that  he  has  no  means.  But 
he  was  really  fond  of  her  too  —  not  alone  for  what 
he  could  get.  And  now"  the  world  will  demand  work 
from  him,  if  it's  only  the  work  of  finding  another 
wife  with  cash.  There  lies  the  real  tragedy.  He 
tells  me  —  however,  it  was  in  confidence.  He  wasn't 
jealous  enough,  in  my  opinion.  Too  lazy  even  to  be 
jealous.  Handsome  wives  can't  forgive  that.  He 
might  so  easily  have  pretended  it,  even  though  he 
did  not  feel  it.  I  blamed  him  there,  and  he  asked, 
not  unreasonably,  w^hat  w^as  the  good.  '  If  a  woman 
loves  a  man  better  than  her  husband,  the  mere  fact 
that  the  husband  is  jealous  won't  alter  her  affection 
for  the  other  chap.'  So  poor  Mr.  Forbes  put  it.  A 
dreary  truth,  no  doubt." 

"  Rest,"  said  the  painter.     "  Take  it  easy  while  I 


66  THE  JOY  OF  YOUTH 

do  the  fowl.  Can  you  let  him  come  a  little  nearer  to 
you,  or  will  he  peek  you  ?  ' ' 

They  moved  the  macaw  a  trifle,  and  Loveday 
watched  with  interest  to  see  the  bird  swiftly  but 
surely  make  its  appearance.  The  picture  was  to  be 
a  three-quarter  length,  and  Miss  Merton's  respect 
grew  greater  every  moment  as  she  watched  Danger- 
field's  slow  but  very  beautiful  and  free  draughtsman- 
ship. Presently  Lady  Dangerfield  posed  again,  and 
in  another  half-hour  he  declared  the  sitting  to  be  at 
an  end. 

Loveday  stayed  to  lunch,  and,  when  it  was  ended, 
invited  the  artist  to  come  and  see  Vanestowe. 

"  Ralegh  and  his  mother  are  at  Exeter,"  she  said, 
"so  we  shall  have  it  all  to  ourselves.  I'll  show  you 
my  dear  Adam  Fry.  I  know  you'll  want  to  paint 
him.  And  the  autumn  colour  in  the  woods  is  getting 
more  glorious  every  day." 

They  went  together  and  walked  by  lanes  hidden 
between  lofty  banks ;  then  they  reached  the  high  road 
to  Exeter,  and  finally  the  great  gates  of  Vanestowe. 
These  were  of  iron  ornately  wrought,  and  on  the 
pillars  stood  the  twin  hippogriffs  of  the  Vanes. 
Bertram  admired  the  gates,  but  hated  the  fabulous 
animals. 

She  resented  his  criticism. 

"  I  must  stand  up  for  my  own  armorial  bearings 
to  be,"  she  said. 

They  found  Adam  Fry  in  an  outhouse  surrounded 
by  fat  bags  of  bulbs.  The  annual  consignment  had 
arrived  from  Holland,  and  Dangerfield  heard  of  the 
scheme  of  colour  planned  for  the  Dutch  garden  and 
certain  gigantic  flowerbeds  upon  the  terrace. 


A  PICTURE  IN  THE  GRASS     67 

"  I  saw  it  in  the  Park  last  spring,"  she  said.  "  It 
was  too  lovely. ' ' 

He  approved  the  plans,  but  made  some  modifica- 
tions. Adam  was  interested  in  naturalising  spring 
bulbs  through  the  glades  about  his  beloved  rhododen- 
drons. Indeed,  that  was  the  work  at  present  occupy- 
ing him. 

"  Show  Mr.  Dangerfield  the  seedling,  Fry,"  di- 
rected Loveday ;  and  Bertram  was  marched  to  the 
spot  where  a  young  rhododendron,  twenty  years  of 
age,    had   set   its   first   flower-buds. 

"  A  cross  between  '  Manglesii  '  and  *  Sir 
Thomas,'  "  explained  the  gardener.  "  '  Sir  Thomas  ' 
is  a  very  fine  thing  between  Arboreum  and  a  doubt- 
ful father.  'Twas  called  after  Sir  Ralegh's  father. 
And  'tis  the  hope  of  us  all  that  this  is  going  to 
prove  a  wonder.  I  rose  it  when  I  was  forty-nine, 
and  now  I  'm  in  sight  o '  seventy. ' ' 

''  And  Fry  is  going  to  call  it  '  Loveday,'  if  it  is 
good  enough  —  aren  't  you,  Fry  ?  ' ' 

"  If  it  is  good  enough,  that  will  be  its  name,"  he 
answered. 

Adam  beamed  upon  his  seedling,  stroked  the  leaves, 
and  removed  a  scrap  of  dead  wood. 

"  I  can  hardly  wait  for  it,"  declared  the  girl. 
**  Fry's  patience  is  amazing." 

"  If  you're  not  patient  after  forty  years  of  gar- 
dening, you  never  will  be,"  answered  the  old  man. 
"  I  pride  myself  on  being  as  patient  as  God  Almighty. 
I  was  saying  to  Stacey  a  bit  ago,  how  'tis  only  to 
let  Nature  have  the  laugh  of  us  when  we  get  impa- 
tient. His  wife's  with  child,  and  the  babby's  due  to 
be  born  to  a  week  the  same  as  my  rhodo's  due  to 


68  THE  JOY  OF  YOUTH 

bloom.  And  he  thinks  his  child  will  be  a  lot  more 
successful  than  my  rhodo ;  but,  knowing  his  wife,  I 
have  my  doubts.  Not  that  I  tell  him  so,  for  that 
would  be  to  hurt  the  man's  feelings." 

They  talked  of  the  trees,  and  Mr.  Fry  uttered  his 
ideas,  while  Loveday  noticed  that  Bertram  became 
quite  quiet  and  played  the.  part  of  interested  listener. 
He  made  a  good  audience,  and  Adam  evidently  felt 
in  a  congenial  presence,  for  he  expanded  and  allowed 
himself  to  declare  views  usually  reserved  for  fa- 
miliars. 

"  I've  often  wished  as  I  was  a  forest  tree  my- 
self, ' '  he  said ;  ' '  and  you  might  think  'twas  a  rather 
weak-witted  thing  to  wish  at  first  sight;  but  it  ain't. 
For  why?  These  here  trees  live  two  hundred  year, 
and  that 's  something  in  itself ;  and  then,  beyond  that, 
they  have  a  spring  every  year  and  be  young  again 
and  in  their  green  youth  once  more.  But  us  —  no 
more  spring  for  us,  no  more  shedding  the  white  hair 
and  breaking  out  a  crop  of  brown;  no  more  young 
wood;  no  more  sap.  They  don't  feel  much  and  they 
don 't  think  much ;  but  they  see  the  sun  rise  every 
day  for  two  hundred  year  and  more,  and  they  neigh- 
bour with  nice  folk  like  themselves,  and,  once  they've 
made  good  their  space,  they  lift  up  from  strength  to 
strength,  as  the  saying  is,  and  live  a  very  interest- 
ing life,  in  my  opinion.  I  often  think,  as  I  work 
among  'em,  how  they  must  look  down  upon  me  and 
wonder  what  I  was  made  for.  But  some  of  'em 
know  —  or  think  they  do  —  and  yonder  larches  — 
a  thousand  of  'em  —  that  sheet  of  yellow  up  over  — 
every  one  of  'em  went  through  my  hands  in  my 
'  twenties.'     I  spread  the  dinky  roots  in  the  hole  and 


A  PICTURE  IN  THE  GRASS     69 

dropped  the  soft  stuff  atop  and  watered  'em  in.  And 
I  pretend  to  myself  sometimes  that  they  remember, 
and  say  as  I  go  along,  '  There's  the  chap  that  planted 
us  here ;  but  what  the  mischief 's  come  to  him  ?  Here 
we  be,  just  growing  up  to  our  full  strength,  so 
straight  and  slim  and  fine,  and  he's  got  as  round  as 
a  woodlouse,  and  his  hair's  white  and  he's  turned 
into  a  regular  old  go-by-the-round !  '  They  don't 
know  'tis  old  age,  of  course,  and  can't  feel  for  me  no 
more  than  you  young  creatures  can.  Youth  can't 
picture  age,  and  so  'tis  vain  to  ask  the  young  to 
pity  the  old." 

"  You  must  plant  a  tree,"  said  Loveday  to  Bert- 
ram. *'  Everybody  who  is  anybody  plants  a  tree 
when  they  come  to  Vanestowe.  Have  you  moved  the 
big  Siberian  crab,  Adam?  If  not,  get  Stacey  to  come 
and  move  it ;  then  Mr.  Dangerfield  can  plant  it.  He's 
going  to  be  famous  some  day." 

"  You  must  discover  yourself  before  you  can  make 
the  world  discover  you,"  answered  Adam.  "  No 
doubt  the  young  gentleman  have  done  that  much 
a 'ready." 

He  took  a  little  whistle  from  his  pocket  and  blew 
it;  whereupon  a  tall,  shambling  man  with  big  yellow 
whiskers  and  a  long,  crooked  nose  appeared. 

"  Fetch  the  crab,  that's  on  the  trolley  waiting, 
and  bring  him  up  over  where  the  hole's  dug  for  him, 
and  tell  Tom  to  bring  the  water-barrel,"  said  Fry. 

Then  Bertram  made  a  petition. 

"  Let  me  plant  some  crocuses,"  he  begged. 
**  There's  a  wiiol-e  sack  here,  and  here's  a  bank  that 
wants  planting.     May  I?     I've  an  idea." 

Loveday  approved. 


70  THE  JOY  OF  YOUTH 

"  You  shall  paint  a  picture  in  purple  and  yellow 
and  white,"  she  said.  "  And  it  shall  be  known  as 
*  your  bank  '  f orevermore. ' ' 

Bulbs  of  the  three  colours  were  brought,  and 
Bertram  instructed  in  the  manner  of  planting. 
He  became  enthusiastic,  for  the  possibilities  were 
great. 

' '  To  paint  in  flowers  —  a  magnificent  idea !  "  he 
declared.  ' '  And  the  picture  will  fade  every  year  and 
then  come  to  earth  again  with  Persephone.  Now  go 
away,  if  you  please.  I  want  to  be  all  alone  with 
this  bank  for  an  hour  at  least.  And  I  want  some 
string  and  some  sticks  to  sketch  my  design." 

Adam  approved,  and  spoke  of  him  behind  his 
back. 

*'  There's  a  bit  of  the  gardener  in  him,"  he  said. 
"  I  see  it  in  his  eyes.  They  be  eyes  of  fire.  A  very 
understanding  young  youth,  and  if  he  can  make 
pickshers,  then  he  ought  to  bring  his  paint-box  and 
do  the  edge  of  the  north  wood,  where  the  maples 
are  alongside  the  blue  firs.  The  reds  was  in  the 
sky  last  night  as  I  went  by,  and  'twas  like  a  living 
flame  in  the  trees  —  the  maples  below  and  the  beeches 
above. ' ' 

"  I'll  ask  him  if  he  can  do  landscapes,"  she  an- 
swered. "  He's  come  here  to  paint  Lady  Danger- 
field." 

**  A  tree's  autumn  is  a  damned  sight  finer  than  a 
woman's,"  declared  Adam.  '*  What's  the  use  of 
making  shows  of  plain,  old  people  —  with  all  respect 
—  when  you  might  —  ?  " 

"  The  people  drop  into  the  earth,  but  the  autumn 
colour  comes  again,"  said  Loveday. 


A  PICTURE  IN  THE  GRASS     71 

They  found  the  Siberian  crab  presently,  and  called 
Dangerfield.  The  ceremony  was  purely  formal ;  he 
flung  a  handful  of  dust  into  the  new  hole  where  the 
tree  now  stood,  and  declared  that  it  was  well  and 
truly  planted  by  himself.  Then  he  returned  to  the 
crocuses. 

An  hour  later  his  work  was  done,  and  the  young 
couple  walked  away  together. 

"  I  must  paint  Adam  Fry,"  he  said.  "  I  like 
the  angle  of  his  back,  and  I  like  his  eyes  and  his 
great  eyebrows." 

*'  "What  have  you  put  into  the  grass?  " 

''Wait  until  next  February  —  then  you'll  know. 
And  you  must  write  and  tell  me  what  you  think 
of  it." 

She  praised  flowers,  and  said  they  were  her  first 
joy  in  life. 

**  And  yet,"  he  said,  "  there  isn't  one  you'd  like 
to  have  all  the  year  round.  The  deathless  flowers 
in  Paradise  will  be  a  great  bore.  The  charm  of 
flowers  is  quite  as  much  that  they  go  as  that  they 
come.  All  charming  things  come  and  go.  You 
come  and  go.  I  come  and  go.  It  fearfully  imperils 
the  charm  of  anything  if  it  comes  and  stops.  The 
flowers  don't  make  themselves  too  cheap;  they  pick 
up  their  pretty  frocks  and  trip  away ;  and  know  that 
their  welcome  will  be  all  the  warmer  next  year. 
This  business  of  retarded  bulbs  and  birds  and  things 
is  horrid  —  almost  indecent.  "We  might  just  as  well 
retard  ourselves  and  have  unseasonable  friends  turn- 
ing up  at  the  wrong  times,  like  grouse  in  June.  You 
know  how  tasteless  even  the  nicest  people  are  if  they 
come  when  you  don't  want  them." 


72  THE  JOY  OF  YOUTH 

They  parted  presently,  and  he  assured  Loveday 
that  he  was  dying  to  meet  Sir  Ralegh. 

"As  to  landscape,"  he  told  her,  in  answer  to  a 
final  question,  "  of  course  I  paint  landscape.  I 
paint  everything  in  the  world.  I'll  meet  you  and 
your-  betrothed  at  the  North  Wood  the  day  after 
to-morrow. '  * 

"  They'll  be  six  guns  altogether,"  she  told  him, 
"  but  none  of  your  sort.  And  if  you're  an  impres- 
sionist, they  won't  understand;  but  they'll  all  be  de- 
lightfully nice  and  forgiving." 


CHAPTER  VII 

BAD   FORM 

Ten  people  came  to  the  dinner-party  given  in 
honour  of  Bertram  Dangerfield,  and  he  sat  between 
Loveday  and  Nina  Spedding.  Sir  Ralegh  had  Lady 
Dangerfield  on  his  right,  while  Admiral  Champer- 
nowne,  Loveday 's  maternal  uncle,  sat  beside  Lady 
Vane.  The  company  included  the  bereaved  Hast- 
ings Forbes;  the  Reverend  Rupert  Hoskyns,  vicar 
of  Whiteford,  and  his  sister;  Patrick  Spedding,  and 
Miss  Nelly  Grayson,  a  professional  musician,  who  was 
related  to  Mr,  Hoskyns,  and  was  spending  a  sombre 
week  at  Whiteford  Vicarage. 

Dangerfield  attempted  to  measure  the  men  and 
strove  to  accommodate  himself  to  their  interests ;  while 
a  few  of  them,  with  kindly  instincts,  made  efforts  to 
discuss  art  and  painting.  The  attempts  on  both  sides 
were  laudable,  but  futile.  Sir  Ralegh  and  his  friends 
could  only  see  in  the  painter  a  self-sufficient  youth 
with  doubtful  and  dangerous  views;  while  to 
Dangerfield  these  people  were  tinkling  brass.  He 
had  met  some  of  them  before  at  the  North  Wood, 
and  been  amused  to  hear  their  opinions  on  a  note, 
painted  swiftly,  of  the  autumn  forest.  The  general 
opinion  appeared  to  be  that  he  was  trying  his  colours, 
and  would  presently  begin  to  paint. 

"  Did  you  ever  finish  that  picture  of  the  woods?  " 


74  THE  JOY  OF  YOUTH 

asked  Nina  Spedding,  who  had  been  at  the  shooting- 
party. 

"  I  thought  you  saw  it  finished.  Don't  you  re- 
member that  I  worked  while  you  all  fed,  and  Miss 
Merton  brought  me  a  glass  of  wine  and  a  sandwich 
with  her  own  fair  hand?  " 

"  It's  impressionism,  isn't  it?  You  have  to  go  a 
long  way  off  to  see  it." 

* '  Yes ;  and  by  going  a  little  farther  off  still  you 
needn't  see  it  at  all.  Nothing  is  easier  than  avoid- 
ing unpleasant  things." 

"  I  didn't  say  it  was  unpleasant,"  she  retorted 
rather  sharply.     **  I  merely  said  it  was  unfinished." 

"  It  was  quite  finished,  I  thought.  I'm  going  to 
give  it  to  Sir  Ralegh,  if  he'll  accept  it." 

She  yielded. 

*'  I  expect  it  will  look  jolly  in  a  good  frame." 

"  The  frame  shall  save  it,"  he  promised. 

Presently  Admiral  Champernowne  set  a  light  to 
the  fire,  and  Dangerfield,  who  was  growing  uneasy, 
struck  into  conversation  that  did  not  concern  him. 

The  "  three-decker  "  had  been  fulminating  against 
the  lazy  poor. 

"  Work,"  he  said.  "  They  dread  it  like  the  fiend 
dreads  holy  w^ater.  Why  do  they  hate  the  union? 
Simply  because  it  is  called  the  workhouse.  They'll 
do  anything  and  commit  any  crime  to  escape  from 
work. ' ' 

"  And  what  about  the  lazy  rich.  Admiral?  "  asked 
Bertram.  *'  D'you  think  they  are  any  better?  I'm 
sure  you  don't.  I  know  them.  They're  haunted  too 
—  not  by  the  fear  of  work,  but  by  the  fear  of  bore- 
dom.    Ennui  is  to  them  what  hunger  and  thirst  are 


BAD  FORM  75 

to  the  poor.  In  fact,  it  is  a  worse  thing,  because 
hunger  and  thirst  only  torture  the  body;  but  ennui 
shows  that  the  mind  is  diseased." 

Admiral  Champernowne  listened  politely  and 
stroked  his  white-peaked  beard.  He  was  an  owl- 
eyed,  handsome  old  man. 

"  Didactic  ass,"  whispered  Patrick  Spedding  to 
his  neighbour,  the  young  musician.  But  she  was  in- 
terested. The  Admiral,  however,  only  bowed  slightly 
across  the  table,  turned  to  Lady  Vane,  and  made  it 
clear  that  he  was  not  talking  to  Mr.  Dangerfield. 

*'  And  what's  the  cure?  "  asked  Loveday,  seeing 
that  nobody  w^as  prepared  to  discuss  the  subject. 

Thereupon  Bertram  lowered  his  voice  and  turned 
to  her. 

*'  To  be  busy  —  if  it's  only  mischief.  Better  be 
after  something,  even  partridges  or  another  man's 
wife,  than  after  nothing  at  all.  Life's  exciting  in 
the  first  case  —  according  to  the  modest  require- 
ments of  the  sportsman  or  lover;  in  the  second  case, 
it's  one  yawn.     Illusion  is  better  than  disillusion." 

**  Illusions  keep  the  world  going  round,"  declared 
Loveday,  and  he  admitted  it. 

*'  They  are  like  the  ferment  that  turns  grape- 
juice  into  wine,"  he  said.  "  But  disillusion  is  a 
mere  suspension  of  faculty,  and  leaves  the  soul  with 
the  dry  rot." 

Mr.  Hoskyns  sat  on  the  other  side  of  Loveday,  and 
he  pricked  up  his  ears  professionally. 

"  The  thing  is  to  seek  truth  —  the  truth  that  soars 
above  illusion  or  disillusion,"  he  declared.  "  My  ex- 
perience is  that  there  are  very  few  idle  rich  in  the 
country.     The  landed  people  and  those  who  under- 


76  THE  JOY  OF  YOUTH 

stand  the  true  significance  of  that  great  saying, 
'  noblesse  oblige  ' —  those  who  stand  for  the  Throne 
and  the  Church  and  the  State  —  are  not  lazy.  There 
is  no  more  energetic  and  self-sacrificing  class  in  the 
kingdom, ' ' 

Another  artist  was  at  the  table,  and  by  a  sort  of 
cryptic  sense   Bertram  presently   found  it   out. 

Nelly  Grayson,  a  handsome  woman  of  eight-and- 
twenty,  with  a  soprano  voice  and  the  perfect  man- 
ner of  a  professional  singer,  was  talking  to  Hastings 
Forbes,  who  sat  upon  her  left. 

"I'm  too  young  to  be  a  critic  of  myself,"  she  told 
him.  "  I  haven't  known  myself  long  enough.  I 
muddle  up  my  deeds  and  misdeeds  with  a  light  heart, 
and  I  really  don't  know  what  are  the  nice  things 
I  do  and  what  are  the  horrid  things." 

"It  is  a  great  accomplishment  not  to  criticise," 
he  said.  "  I  have  always  avoided  criticising  any- 
body. I  praise  indiscriminately,  and  not  the  least 
harm  comes  of  it.  Of  course,  you  can't  do  that. 
Your  art — " 

"  But  artists  have  a  perfect  right  to  be  idiots  out- 
side their  art,"  she  answered.  "  Ask  Mr.  Danger- 
field.     He'll  know  what  I  mean,  if  you  don't." 

She  had  been  listening  to  Bertram,  and  now  de- 
sired to  get  into  touch  with  him. 

"  We're  two  defenceless  things  in  this  crowd,"  she 
thought.     "  "We  can  back  up  each  other." 

Forbes  sent  the  challenge  across  the  table  in  a 
pause. 

"  Miss  Grayson  says  that  artists  have  a  right  to 
be  idiots  outside  their  art,  and  tells  me  that  you  will 
know  what  she  means." 


BAD  FORM  77 

"  Of  course,"  he  answered  instantly.  "  Who 
doubts  it?  They  owe  it  to  themselves.  And  yet 
they're  always  criticised  in  a  mixed  crowd  because 
they're  not  distractingly  clever  and  brilliant  and 
walking  fireworks.  That's  because  all  the  lay  fools 
forget  what  an  awful  task-mistress  art  is.  We,  her 
slaves,  are  far  too  fully  occupied  with  her  commands 
to  think  of  much  else." 

"  The  painters  I  have  known  certainly  didn't  show 
much  intelligent  interest  in  general  affairs,"  declared 
Hastings  Forbes,  and  Dangerfield  was  the  first  to 
laugh. 

"  I  grant  that.  But  why?  They  starve  their 
brains  and  give  the  food  to  their  eyes.  If  any  of 
you  could  see  what  a  real  painter  sees,  your  poor 
eyes  would  be  blinded!  Wlien  I  hear  a  painter 
worthy  of  the  name  talking  even  sensibly  about 
things  that  don't  matter,  I'm  full  of  admiration  for 
him." 

"  You  talk  sensibly,"  said  Loveday. 

*'  Very  seldom,"  he  answered.  *'  Never  when  I'm 
painting." 

After  a  pause  the  singer  spoke  across  the  table 
directly  to  Bertram. 

'*  I  tell  Mr.  Forbes  that  the  artist  is  a  deceiver 
always,"  she  said.  *'  But  he  is  too  gallant  to  believe 
it  —  of  me." 

"  There's  no  denying  that.  He  may  be  a  gay  de- 
ceiver—  or  a  grim  one;  but  it's  all  '  fake  '  under- 
neath, though,  of  course,  what  comes  out  of  it  is 
eternal  and  the  best  that  man  can  do.  It's  only 
the  realists  who  pretend  they  are  telling  you  the 
truth ;  and  they  know  they  're  not  —  any  more  than 


78  THE  JOY  OF  YOUTH 

the  black  cloak  and  poison-bowl  and  dagger  people, 
or  the  cheerful,  silly,  sanguine  souls  who  bawl  Chris- 
tianity from  the  top  of  a  beer-barrel  and  paint  a 
rainbow  on  every  black  cloud.  They  are  all  lying 
together. ' ' 

The  singer  spoke. 

"  Modern  swell  novelists  are  like  the  school  of 
realistic  painters,"  she  said.  *'  They  are  simply  fact- 
hunters,  sticking  nature  into  the  frame  of  their  own 
sympathies. ' ' 

"  So  they  are,"  absented  Bertram.  *'  Oh,  the 
monotony  of  these  piles  of  lower  middle-class  facts! 
They  make  truth  uglier  than  it  is  already.  To  see 
the  world  all  lower  middle-class  is  not  to  see  its  face. 
It's  not  to  see  its  full  face  or  its  side  face  —  only 
its  —  goodness  knows  what !  ' ' 

Sir  Ralegh  had  heard  the  words  "  lower  middle- 
class,"  and  thought  it  an  opportunity  to  speak  to 
Bertram. 

"  One  must  avoid  class  prejudice,  however,"  he 
said.  '  *  We  countrymen  aren  't  always  killing  things, 
as  you  might  guess.  We  really  read  a  great  deal, 
if  it  is  only  in  the  newspapers,  and  we  begin  to  see 
clearly  enough  that  they  laugh  loudest  who  laugh 
last." 

Thereupon  rose  a  stupid,  boyish  desire  in  Bertram 
to  trouble  this  company.  He  resented  Sir  Ralegh's 
lecture. 

Loveday  spoke  to  him  of  pictures,  and  told  him 
under  her  breath  not  to  shock  people.  He  bided 
his  time,  and  drank  —  to  banish  a  feeling  of  stuffi- 
ness and  depression. 

Unluckily     he     was     challenged     again,     for    Mr. 


BAD  FORM  79 

Hoskyns  discussed  growing  unbelief,  mourned  the 
discovery  of  a  freethinking  carpenter  within  the  se- 
cluded precincts  of  his  own  parish,  and  declared  that 
rationalism  was  a  very  real  peril, 

"  Rationalism  is  so  brutal.  It  freezes  the  heart 
and  makes  men  stones,"  he  said. 

*'  You're  wrong,"  declared  the  painter.  "  Ration- 
alism no  more  bars  out  the  ideal  than  faith  does. 
Look  at  the  Greeks  —  the  highest  artistic  ideal  the 
world  has  seen  —  founded  on  pure  reason.  They 
didn't  idealise  out  of  their  own  heads  —  as  we  are 
told  the  man  did  who  made  the   Apollo  of  Tenea 

—  you  remember,  Miss  Mertou  —  but  they  idealised 
on  what  Nature  offered  them,  as  the  man  who  made 
the    Discobolus.     That's   the    idealisation    of    reason 

—  to  go  one  better  than  Nature,  not  one  better  than 
some  ideal  not  founded  in  Nature." 

"  I  was  speaking  of  religion,  not  art,"  answered 
the  clergyman,  shortly. 

*  *  I  know ;  but  it 's  just  the  same  there.  All  super- 
naturalism  is  idealising  on  a  wrong  foundation.  The 
rationalist  tells  you  that  religion  must  evolve  along 
the  line  of  reason,  and  that  when  we  have  done 
worshipping  false  gods  and  myths  we  shall  begin  to 
worship  humanity,  as  the  mightiest  reality  that  ex- 
istence on  this  earth  can  reveal  to  man." 

Mr.  Hoskyns  started  as  though  a  serpent  had 
stung  him,  then  sighed  and  shook  his  head. 

"  You  are  young,"  he  said.  "  You  will  live  to 
learn  what  nonsense  you  are  talking." 

The  elder  turned  away,  and  Bertram  whispered 
under  his  breath  to  Loveday. 

'*  One  more  snub  and  I'll  burst!  " 


80  THE  JOY  OF  YOUTH 

*'  You  must  give  and  take.  You're  not  every- 
body," she  replied,  for  his  ear  alone. 

The  thundercloud  broke  presently,  and  Miss 
Spedding  felt  the  full  charge  of  the  explosion.  But 
Dangerfield  meant  nothing;  he  had  yet  to  learn  the 
delicate  art  of  conversation  and  the  lightness  of 
touch  —  like  a  dancing  butterfly  —  that  condones  all 
allusions. 

It  happened  that  the  table-talk  fell  on  children, 
and  Sir  Ralegh,  who  cared  for  them,  told  of  certain 
events  at  a  school  treat  he  had  given  in  the  past 
summer. 

**  Do  you  remember,  Hoskyns,"  he  asked,  **  how 
three  little  sisters  were  lost  in  the  park,  and  dis- 
covered saying  their  prayers  in  the  fern  dell  and 
asking  God  to  find  their  mother?  " 

"  When  I  was  young,"  said  Nina  Spedding,  '*  I 
never  could  get  further  than  mamma  in  my  prayers. 
God  was  too  great  an  idea,  so  I  made  my  idol  of 
mamma  and  prayed  to  her." 

*'  Rather  like  me,"  declared  Bertram.  "  I  must 
have  dimly  understood  the  mysteries  of  creation 
pretty  early.  When  I  was  nine  years  old  I  used 
to  call  my  mother  *  the  Rock  of  Ages.'  " 

''  Why?  "  enquired  Miss  Spedding.  ''  I  don't  see 
the  point." 

**  Because  she  was  cleft  for  me,  I  suppose,"  an- 
swered the  painter.  There  fell  a  hush,  for  every- 
body had  heard  him.  The  silence  was  broken  by 
Loveday,  who  openly  laughed,  and  said,  "  How 
beautiful!  "  But  none  else  saw  any  beauty  what- 
ever. Miss  Spedding  did  not  speak  to  her  neighbour 
again.     It  was  the  last  straw,  and  the  young  man 


BAD  FORM  81 

felt  himself  stifling  in  an  atmosphere  that  he  had 
never  breathed  till  then. 

"  If  that  can  hurt  them,  then  let  them  be  hurt," 
he  said  to  Loveday,  *'  I  didn't  know  there  were 
such  people  left." 

The  talk  ranged  over  politics  and  sport.  Loveday 
discussed  golf  with  Hastings  Forbes,  and  for  a  time 
Bertram  was  ignored.  Then  Miss  Grayson  addressed 
a  question  to  him.  Dessert  had  begun ;  Admiral 
Champernowne  explained  pear-growing  to  Lady 
Vane;  while  Lady  Dangerfield  discussed  winter 
resorts  with  Sir  Ralegh,  who  listened  patiently. 

"  Which  do  you  like  to  paint  best,  men  or  women?  " 
asked  the  musician,  meeting  Dangerfield 's  troubled 
eyes.  He  thanked  her  with  them  before  replying, 
then  made  answer: 

"  Women." 

"  That's  quite  wrong,"  she  said.  "  You  ought 
to  say  *  men.'  " 

"  Why?  Women,  made  right  with  long  legs,  are 
easily  the  most  beautiful  things  in  nature.  Their 
outsides,  I  mean." 

"  Cold  comfort  for  us!  What  sort  d'you  like 
best?  " 

"  There  are  only  two  sorts.  The  women  with 
shoulders  as  broad  as  their  hips,  and  the  women  with 
hips  broader  than  their  shoulders.  Both  can  be  fine ; 
but  I  like  the  Greek  ideal  best  —  the  women  with 
hips  and  shoulders  of  equal  breadth.  Which  do 
you?  " 

Loveday  caught  her  breath,  and  looked  at  Sir 
Ralegh. 

He  was  perturbed,  and  signalling  to  his  mother. 


82  THE  JOY  OF  YOUTH 

Miss  Spedding  indicated  further  distress.  Nobody 
spoke,  and  the  only  sound  was  Patrick  Spedding 
cracking  a  walnut. 

**  Miss  Merton's  shoulders  are  exactly — " 

But  Lady  Vane  had  risen,  and  in  a  minute  the 
men  were  alone. 

Admiral  Champernowne,  as  the  oldest  among 
them,  began  to  preach  to  the  painter. 

*'  My  dear  young  man,"  he  said,  "  excuse  my 
bluntness,  but  —  but  —  you  must  really  try  to  con- 
sider your  subjects  more  carefully  in  mixed  com- 
pany. Women  are  women,  and  they  shrink  from  the 
liberty  —  in  fact,  '  manners  maketh  man  ' —  a  thing 
the  rising  generation  has  forgotten." 

"  You  may  think  us  old-fashioned  folk,"  said  Sir 
Ralegh ;  ' '  and  so  doubtless  we  are ;  but  —  Per- 
haps in  Italy  there  is  less  self-restraint." 

Dangerfield  expressed  no  regret. 

"  This  is  jolly  interesting,"  he  answered.  "  I 
didn't  know  there  were  men  and  women  left  in  the 
world  who  could  have  been  staggered  to  hear  an 
artist  talk  about  hips  and  shoulders.  A  hunting  girl, 
too!  " 

"  It  was  more  your  voice  than  what  you  said," 
replied  Spedding.  "  But  my  sister's  a  prude,  though 
she  does  hunt." 

**  Nothing  of  the  kind,  Patrick,"  declared  Sir 
Ralegh.  "  There's  no  woman  less  a  prude  than 
Nina.  It  was  the  strangeness.  She  got  over  the  first 
outrage.  Excuse  the  word,  for  it  seemed  an  outrage 
to  her.     But  the  second — " 

"  You  puzzle  me  beyond  anything  I've  ever  heard 
about,"  retorted  Dangerfield.     "  I  was  going  to  say 


BAD  FORM  83 

that  Miss  Merton's  hips  and  shoulders  were  exactly 
the  same  breadth,  and  that  Miss  Grayson's  hips  were 
broader  than  her  shoulders.  Would  that  have  been 
wrong?  It  would  have  been  true;  but,  of  course, 
that's  nothing." 

"  It  would  not  merely  have  been  wrong,  but  im- 
possible," said  Admiral  Charapernowne.  "  Even 
among  ourselves  the  personal  allusion  is  barred  by  a 
sort  of  instinct.  We  talk  about  the  sex  and  permit 
ourselves  an  occasional  joke  —  more  shame  to  us  — 
but  we  never  indulge  in  personalities.  There  are 
men  — thousands  of  them  —  who  think  nothing  of  it ; 
but  here  we  do  not.     Am  I  right,  Ralegh  ?  ' ' 

"  It's  bad  form,  you  know,"  explained  Patrick 
Spedding. 

"Is  it  bad  form  to  say  that  Miss  Merton  is  the 
most  beautifully  shaped  girl  I  have  ever  seen?  " 
asked  Bertram  of  Sir  Ralegh. 

"  Yes,  it  is  —  frankly,"  replied  the  baronet.  "  I 
know  there 's  no  offence ;  but  one  simply  does  not  say 
things  like  that  to  a  man  about  his  betrothed." 

"  For  the  same  reason  what  you  said  to  me  some 
time  ago  was  much  to  be  condemned,"  declared  the 
smouldering  Hoskyns.  "In  a  Christian  company 
there  are  things  that  no  delicate-minded  person 
could  say." 

"  Why  not?  You  don't  hesitate  to  condemn  the 
infidel,  as  you  call  him.  You  and  Admiral  Champer- 
nowne  were  differing  about  missionaries  without 
making  Lady  Vane  unhappy.  Then  why  should  not 
you  and  I  differ  about  myths  without — ?  " 

"  The  very  word  is  offensive.     Can't  you  see  it?  " 

"  Applied  to  Christianity  in  a  Christian  country 


84  THE  JOY  OF  YOUTH 

and  among  Christians,  it  is,"  declared  Sir  Ralegh. 

*'  Christianity  makes  the  world  a  prison,  and  death 
the  end  of  the  sentence.  We  are  born  in  prison, 
and  if  we  don't  behave  ourselves  and  get  full  marks, 
we  shall  only  leave  this  gaol  for  another.  Is  it  bad 
form  to  say  that?  " 

'  *  "Worse  than  bad  form  —  false  and  ignorant  and 
abominable,"  replied  the  clergyman.  "  Your  con- 
science must  impugn  such  evil  words." 

The  other  shook  his  head. 

*'  I  shall  never  see  or  shock  any  of  you  again,"  he 
said,  '*  so  I  can  speak.  Try  and  understand  that 
you  've  met  an  artist  —  perhaps  for  the  first  and  last 
time  in  your  lives.  An  artist  has  nothing  to  do  with 
bad  form  or  good  form,  as  you  understand  it.  He 
must  think  free  if  he  is  to  think  clean.  Your  con- 
ventions foul  the  clean  thinker's  thoughts  and  make 
—  It's  this  way:  most  men's  minds  are  like  frosted 
glass:  they  take  no  clear  image  and  only  reflect 
dimly  the  meaning  of  all  around  them ;  but  the 
artist's  mind  should  be  bright  silver  polished  ten 
thousand  times,  so  that  the  image  it  receives  is  clear 
and  perfect.  Yet  every  mirror  is  cracked  and  the 
little  network  of  invisible  flaws  —  that  is  the  man. 
That  decides  the  image  he  reflects,  and  gives  the 
distinction.  But  for  that  you  would  have  perfect 
art  —  an  impossibility.  There  are  far  better  things 
in  art  than  perfection.  But  that's  how  I  see,  and 
you  men  —  simply  foundering  in  superstitions  and 
obsolescent  conventions  —  have  no  right  whatever  to 
feel  doubtful  about  my  vision.  You  are  suspicious 
of  me;  you  think  I  stand  for  a  new  order  of  ideas. 
I  do.     Take  conscience.     Mr.  Hoskyns  asked  me  if 


BAD  FORM  85 

my  conscience  didn't  do  something  or  other.  No 
doubt  he  would  talk  of  a  '  bad  conscience.'  But 
doesn't  he  know  that  a  bad  conscience  is  like  a  tropi- 
cal plant?  It  can  only  live  on  certain  stuffy  levels, 
with  remorse  and  piety  and  pity  and  a  lot  of  other 
weeds.  Carry  your  bad  conscience  up  a  mountain 
and  you'll  kill  it  —  with  pure  air.  Take  your 
muddled  metaphysics  and  old  creeds  and  mummeries 
of  mind  into  the  pure  air  of  reason,  and  they'll  curl 
up  and  die." 

"  You  are  saying  things  that  strike  at  the  very 
roots  of  society  and  are  subversive  of  all  high  think- 
ing and  fine  living,"  declared  Sir  Ralegh;  but  the 
youth  denied  it. 

'*  What  I  would  have  makes  for  fine  living,"  he 
replied.  "  Your  views  and  opinions  and  prejudices 
make  for  fine  dying.  Your  life  must  express  your 
values.  Your  outward  and  visible  life  may  not,  be- 
cause so  much  must  come  between  a  landlord  and 
his  ideals;  but  your  inward  and  spiritual  life  must 
express  your  values,  if  you  have  any  power  of  think- 
ing at  all.  And  the  nearer  you  can  get  the  outward 
and  the  inward  into  harmony,  the  better  will  life 
be  from  your  point  of  view.  But  your  idea  of 
harmony  would  be  stagnation:  science  sat  upon  and 
the  poor  kept  ignorant,  and  the  Church  and  State  — ' ' 

"  Don't  speak  for  me,"  answered  the  other. 
"  Harmony  I  certainly  want,  and  harmony  will 
come  in  due  time,  as  the  classes  grow  more  in  tune 
with  each  other  and  the  unrest  and  surge  of  these 
days  begin  to  settle  down ;  but  since  you  speak  so 
openly,  we  may  also;  and  I  voice  all  at  this  table 
when  I  tell  you  that  through  Christian  religion,  and 


86  THE  JOY  OF  YOUTH 

not  through  pagan  art,  will  the  millennium  come  in 
God's  good  time." 

"  Life  is  not  harmony;  it  is  fighting,"  declared 
the  Admiral.  "  It  always  was,  and  always  will  be. 
You're  a  fighter  yourself,  Mr.  Dangerfield,  and  you 
come  of  a  fighting  stock,  and  you're  fighting  a  losing 
battle  for  the  moment.  However,  the  blood  in  your 
veins  may  save  you  when  it  runs  a  little  slower  and 
a  little  cooler." 

But  Bertram  was  not  abashed.  He  talked  on 
while  conversation  ranged  hither  and  thither.  In 
almost  every  case  he  was  alone,  save  when  Hastings 
Forbes,  with  understanding  widened  by  his  recent 
personal  experience,  concurred.  At  last,  however, 
Bertram  and  Sir  Ralegh  found  themselves  absolutely 
at  one,  and  the  artist  applauded  very  heartily. 

"To  be  a  sportsman  is  nothing,"  declared  his 
host;  "  but  to  be  sporting  is  everything;  and  that's 
what  no  one  understands  but  an  Englishman  —  and 
not  all  of  them." 

"It  is  the  grand  thing  that  we  are  teaching  the 
French  —  in  exchange  for  art,"  answered  Bertram. 
**  The  idea  is  entirely  foreign  to  the  Latin  mind,  but 
they  are  grasping  it  —  through  the  channels  of 
sport. ' ' 

He  pleased  them,  too,  with  another  sentiment. 
They  spoke  of  politics,  and  asked  him  what  he  was. 

"  I  stand  for  Tinocracy,"  he  said.  "  For  the 
pursuit  of  honour  and  a  constitution  based  upon  the 
principle  that  the  honour  of  the  State  must  be  para- 
mount and  outweigh  every  other  consideration. 
What  honour  can  any  party  government  pay  to  the 
State?     The  house  divided  against  itself  falleth;  the 


BAD  FORM  87 

principle  of  party  government  is  a  pure  anachronism 
to-day,  though,  of  course,  nobody  sees  it.  I  suppose 
the  house  will  go  on  dividing  against  itself  a  little 
longer,  and  then  a  coalition  will  open  the  eyes  of 
England,  and  we  shall  all  see  what  hopeless  fools 
we've  been,  wasting  precious  time  under  our  two- 
penny-halfpenny party  flags.  It  couldn't  be  helped 
—  I  know  that;  but  it  will  be  helped  pretty  soon." 

"  After  such  a  great  and  glorious  prophecy,  let 
us  join  the  ladies,"  suggested  Sir  Ralegh. 


CHAPTER  VIII 

THE   PAINTER   DEPARTS 

"  I  WISH  the  picture  to  be  shown  at  next  year's  ex- 
hibition of  the  Royal  Academy,"  said  Lady  Danger- 
field.  "It  is  abominably  like  me;  and  it  will  come 
as  a  great  surprise  to  some  of  my  dearest  friends, 
who  think  I  have  been  dead  for  years." 

Bertram  agreed. 

"  It  shall  go  there.  It's  all  right  in  its  way. 
You're  a  grand  sitter,  Aunt  Constance;  and  so  is 
'Little  Billee.'  " 

He  referred  to  the  macaw. 

Friends  applauded,  and  Sir  Ralegh  declared  that 
he  should  have  thought  it  impossible  for  the  same 
man  to  paint  the  portrait  and  the  landscape  of  the 
North  Wood.  The  latter  had  been  given  to  him,  and 
a  few  days  before  Dangerfield  departed,  he  heard  the 
master  of  Vanestowe  upon  the  subject. 

**  To  be  frank,  at  first  I  did  not  like  the  picture," 
he  confessed.  "  The  trees  all  seemed  to  be  a  hope- 
less jumble  of  colours.  It  was  as  though  you  had 
rubbed  your  palette  over  the  canvas.  But  now  it's 
in  the  billiard-room,  in  the  light  you  chose  for  it, 
and  we  all  agree  that  it  grows  upon  us.  It  certainly 
makes  other  things  look  tame." 

"  Nature  is  not  rendered  by  copying  her.  And 
you  must  remember  that  a  painter  of  any  class  has 


THE  PAINTER  DEPARTS        89 

eyes  exactly  a  million  times  subtler  and  keener  and 
better  educated  than  a  man  who  doesn't  paint.  No 
sane  man  ought  to  want  pictures  on  his  walls  that 
only  show  him  what  he  can  see  for  himself,  any  more 
than  he  wants  books  in  his  library  that  only  contain 
what  he  knows  already." 

So  argued  Bertram. 

"  All  the  same,"  declared  Loveday,  when  they  had 
left  her  lover,  ' '  Ralegh  really  likes  —  you  know  the 
artists  —  men  who  see  just  what  he  sees  and  no 
more." 

"  They  are  painters,  not  artists,"  corrected  Dan- 
gerfield,  "  and  if  you  once  break  away  from  them  to 
the  new  school,  you'll  never  go  back.  It  makes  me 
savage  to  hear  laymen  criticising.  '  We  don't  see 
that,  and  we  don't  see  this;  as  if  it  mattered  a  far- 
thing damn  to  anybody  on  earth  what  they  saw  or 
what  they  didn't.  They  can't  see.  A  stockbroker 
or  an  art  critic  drives  across  the  Campagna  in  his 
motor-car,  after  too  much  lunch,  and  then  has  the 
unspeakable  insolence  to  tell  me  he  didn't  see  what 
I  saw  there.  Let  such  a  man  go  to  Dick,  Tom,  or 
Harry,  who  does  see  exactly  what  he  does  —  no  more, 
no  less.  Let  him  buy  his  pictures  from  them  —  the 
men  who  turn  out  their  rubbish  by  the  gross  and 
flood  the  provinces  with  it." 

' '  Take  care !  ' '  warned  Loveday.  ' '  Remember 
the  drawing-room  at  Vanestowe !  ' ' 

She  had  driven  Bertram  in  her  own  pony-carriage 
to  places  that  she  cared  about,  and  had  enjoyed  seri- 
ous conversations  with  him.  But  she  could  not  con- 
vince him  that  his  performance  at  the  dinner-party 
was  egregious. 


90  THE  JOY  OF  YOUTH 

''  If  I  surprised  them,  I'm  sure  they  surprised  me 
still  more,"  he  told  her.  "  They  revive  the  dead 
Victorian  past  and  all  the  prehistoric  ideas  that  were 
thrust  upon  me  —  " 

"  When  you  were  young?  " 

"  Yes.  But  they've  been  burned  away  in  the 
crucibles  of  Art  long  ago.  I  came  down  from  Ox- 
ford with  a  whole  cartload  of  trashy  opinions.  My 
mind  was  full  of  obsolete  monsters  that  couldn  't  exist 
outside  the  atmosphere  of  the  university.  The 
humanists  killed  them  off  like  flies.  But  here  they 
are  —  all  alive  and  kicking ;  and  the  mischief  is  that 
these  human  vegetables  are  so  kind  and  courteous. 
My  heart  goes  out  to  them.  I  should  like  to  come  to 
them  as  a  prophet  —  and  heal  them." 

"  So  good  of  you;  but  I'm  afraid — " 

"  Yes,  I  know.  They  think  I'm  a  bounder.  But 
I'm  not;  I'm  merely  Greek.  You  see,  some  people 
stagnate  and  some  petrify.  The  first  sort  have 
squashy  minds,  and  turn  into  great  fungi  —  mere 
rotting  sponges;  and  the  other  sort  are  impervious 
to  every  idea  —  just  lumps  of  fossilised  opinions  that 
nothing  can  split  or  shatter.  They're  both  horrid, 
and  they're  both  dead,  and  they're  both  everywhere 
apparently." 

''I'm  sure  they  were  quite  alive  when  they  talked 
about  you  behind  your  back,"  she  said.  '*  Nina 
called  you  '  an  outsider.'  " 

' '  I  am  —  from  her  point  of  view.  By  the  way, 
Sir  Ralegh  likes  her  awfully.  Did  you  know  that? 
She's  one  of  the  fossil-minded  sort,  and  her  brother's 
the  other  kind  —  squashy.  It 's  just  this.  Miss  Mer- 
ton  —  I'm  speaking  now  of  these  country  house  peo- 


THE  PAINTER  DEPARTS       91 

pie.  The  criterion  of  existence  is  consciousness,  if 
you  are  going  to  claim  for  yourself  that  you  are  a 
human  being  at  all.     Isn't  it?  " 

"  Of  course." 

"  AVell,  honestly,  these  fellow  creatures  of  yours 
don't  know  they're  born.  That's  the  solemn  truth 
about  them.  Therefore,  being  unconscious,  they  don't 
exist  as  men  and  women  at  all.  They  are  of  the  com- 
pany of  cattle  and  turnips.  It  follows  that  what  they 
think  about  me  doesn't  matter  in  the  least.  But 
what  I  think  about  them  is  most  important  —  if  they 
can  be  made  to  understand  it.  Let  me  once  open 
their  eyes  to  the  fact  that  they  are  alive  in  a  world 
that  stretches  far  beyond  Chudleigh;  let  me  sting 
them  into  consciousness,  and  they  will  rise  from  their 
night  and  cease  to  be  as  the  beasts  and  roots  that 
perish." 

"  Then  you'll  have  created  them  and  they'll  be 
born  again,"  she  said. 

*'  Like  God,  I  shall  have  made  them  with  a  word. 
The  turnip  suddenly  has  become  a  reasonable  human 
creature !  ' ' 

*'  And  the  first  thing  it  ought  to  do  would  be  to 
kneel  down  and  thank  you,  I  suppose.  But,  instead, 
you  merely  made  them  angry." 

*'  '  Merely!  '  Why,  that's  a  miracle  in  itself. 
You  try  to  make  a  turnip  angry,  and  see  how  difficult 
it  is." 

"  Lady  Yane  thinks  that  you  are  a  very  dangerous 
acquaintance  for  me,  and  will  be  glad  when  you  are 
gone. ' ' 

"  Not  as  glad  as  I  shall  be  to  go.  It's  archaic 
and  demoralising  here.     And  you  mean  to  be  in  it 


92  THE  JOY  OF  YOUTH 

all  your  life!  Yet  you  don't  look  like  it,  or  think 
like  it,  or  talk  like  it." 

"  Yes,  I  do,  when  I'm  out  of  your  sight." 

"  Then  you're  as  big  a  humbug  as  any  of  them," 
he  assured  Loveday.  "  My  aunt  is  the  only  honest 
woman  among  them,  and  they  all  hate  her." 

"  I  don't.     I  think  the  world  of  her." 

He  considered. 

"  Doesn't  that  show  you're  a  free  spirit  really, 
though  you  pretend  you  are  not?  " 

She  often  caught  him  regarding  her  with  great 
intentness,  but  never  with  much  satisfaction.  He 
adopted  rather  a  hortatory  tone,  and  yet  sometimes, 
.when  she  was  weary  of  him,  flashed  out  with  a  gleam 
and  touched  her  very  being  by  ineffable  little 
glimpses  of  a  tenderness  and  subtlety  that  she  knew 
not  belonged  to  man.  He  interested  her  a  great  deal, 
and  she  wasted  time  in  vain  efforts  to  reconcile  the 
apparent  contradictions  of  his  nature.  To-day  he 
would  praise  a  classical  education  above  all  things 
and  pour  scorn  on  the  Philistine  attitude  of  the 
lower  classes  that  despised  academic  culture;  to-mor- 
row he  would  raze  Oxford  to  the  ground  and  declare 
that  it  was  dead  and  that  no  good  thing  could  ever- 
more come  out  of  it.  She  challenged  him,  and  he 
explained  that  he  dealt  in  ideas  and  entertained  no 
opinions. 

"  The  moment  I  begin  to  repeat  anything,  distrust 
me,"  he  said.  "  That  shows  I  am  growing  obsessed 
by  it,  and  am  no  longer  impartial.  I  have  these 
obsessions,  but  they  pass.  Sir  Ralegh  warned  me 
against  prejudice  when  I  was  hating  the  lower  mid- 


THE  PAINTER  DEPARTS        93 

die-class.  He  was  quite  right.  Class  prejudice 
means  that  sympathy  is  dead,  and  the  artist  who  kills 
one  strand  of  his  sympathy  is  curtailing  his  power." 

They  talked  of  her  art,  and  she  showed  him  a 
great  many  water-colour  drawings.  The  most  satis- 
factory adorned  the  smoking-room  at  Vanestowe;  but 
these  he  little  liked. 

"  The  things  you  have  left  unfinished  are  the  best," 
he  said ;  ' '  because  they  have  no  such  flagrant  faults 
as  the  completed  drawings.  But  they  are  all  bad, 
and  argue  natural  ineptitude  for  this  medium  and 
no  feeling  whatever  for  selection.  You  don't  get  at 
the  meaning  of  these  local  sanctities  you  have  tried 
to  paint.  I  should  chuck  it  and  employ  time  more 
usefully.  You  observe  a  lot  of  rubbish  that  does  not 
matter,  and  stick  in  a  lot  of  the  things  observed  with- 
out the  least  consideration  whether  you  need  them 
or  not.  The  difference  between  observation  and  im- 
agination I  told  you  before.  It's  the  difference  be- 
tween a  woodman's  catalogue  and  a  burgeoning  tree. 
I'll  write  to  you  when  I'm  gone  —  about  points 
you've  raised.     Shall  I?  " 

"What's  the  good?"  she  asked.  "Why  should 
you  waste  your  time  writing  to  somebody  who  isn't 
an  artist?  " 

"  You  can  be  an  artist  without  being  a  painter," 
he  answered.  "  I  believe  you  are  an  artist  of  some 
sort.  You  have  enthusiasm.  You  only  want  to  learn 
the  meaning  of  the  word.  But  come  to  Firenze  — 
I  implore  you  for  your  soul's  sake  —  and  perhaps 
there  you  will  find  why  you  were  sent  into  this  rip- 
ping world,  and  the  real  things  you  are  going  to  do 
to  make  it  still  lovelier  and  happier." 


94  THE  JOY  OF  YOUTH 

When  he  had  gone,  Loveday  found  the  days  greyer 
by  several  shades.  Even  the  autumn  colours  were 
less  brilliant;  and  life  threatened  to  become  mo- 
notonous. She  fell  back  on  her  lover;  but  he,  too, 
had  taken  a  shade  of  new  colour.  She  saw  him  the 
clearer  for  this  interlude;  and  she  told  herself  that 
she  liked  him  the  better. 


CHAPTER  IX 

ANOTHER   LETTER 

"  FiRENZE. 

"  Dear  Miss  Merton, — 

"  I  am  home  again  after  my  wonderful 
adventures.  It  is  cold,  but  not  so  cold  as  England's 
sympathy  for  art.  I've  been  washing  my  soul  in 
beautiful  things  and  taking  a  tonic  for  my  colour 
sense  —  numbed  by  English  light. 

**  Now  for  two  big  subjects:  Item.  You  asked 
me  if  I  was  a  Socialist,  and  were  a  good  deal  sur- 
prised to  find  that  I  was  not.  Item.  You  said, 
'  What  do  you  mean  by  that  exactly?  '  when  I  told 
you  that  art  was  my  god. 

"  First  I'll  tell  you  why  I  don't  believe  in  So- 
cialism and  the  ideal  of  the  herd.  Because  when 
the  Almighty  said,  '  Let  there  be  light,'  He  implied 
the  contradiction:     *  Let  there  be  shadow.' 

**  Matter  implies  shadow,  and  never  a  sun  was 
born  from  some  immensity  of  fire  without  begetting 
its  own  family  of  shadow-easting  children.  First, 
the  great  suns  endure  making;  then  they  begin  to 
create  on  their  own  account  and  bear  their  babies  out 
of  their  own  fiery  bodies.  They  make  homes  for  life, 
and  they  know  that,  as  soon  as  a  planet  is  ready, 
Alma  Venus  will  surely  find  it  and  bless  it  and  en- 
dow it.     By  the  way,  Bergson  has  a  good  idea,  which 


96  THE  JOY  OF  YOUTH 

Ruskin  had  before  him:  that  the  materials  of  life's 
choice  on  this  earth  are  not  of  necessity  the  materials 
she  uses  elsewhere.  She  selects  and  takes  out  of  mat- 
ter what  pleases  her  best  and  best  fits  her  moods 
and  needs.  You  and  I  are  marble  creatures  —  as 
much  marble  as  Michael  Angelo's  '  Dawn,'  which  I 
worshipped  this  morning.  Our  scaffoldings  and  skele- 
tons are  made  of  lime  —  very  well  in  its  way,  and 
we  must  be  thankful  that  it  isn  't  worse  ;  but  how  much 
better  it  must  be  on  some  of  the  swagger  worlds ! 
Perhaps  in  the  children  of  Sirius,  or  Aldebaran,  or 
Aquilla  conscious  existence  is  linked  to  matter  that 
flashes  like  a  flame  hither  and  thither,  and  conquers 
time  and  space  in  a  fashion  that  we  marble  men  and 
women  can  only  dream  about.  One  of  my  very  great- 
est ideas  is  a  radium,-built  people,  who  live  for  agons 
and  have  garnered  about  them  an  inconceivable 
science  and  culture  and  wisdom.  It  is  the  fashion 
to  sneer  at  that  good  word  '  materialist,'  but  I  know 
not  why;  for  once  concede  that  the  manifestations 
of  matter  are  innumerable,  and  we  may  find  it  em- 
brace the  matrix  of  the  spirit  also,  as  I  think  it 
must.  Would  not  a  radium-built  people  be  spirits  to 
us?  Would  not  our  most  ascetic  heroes  and  martyrs 
be  mere  well-meaning  bath-buns  compared  to  such  a 
people  ? 

' '  But  this  is  a  digression.  I  was  going  to  say  that 
you  can't  have  light  without  shade,  and  virtue  with- 
out vice,  and  courage  without  cowardice,  and  death 
without  life.  Yet  these  old  maids  of  both  sexes, 
called  Socialists,  want  life  to  be  a  plain,  and  would 
level  all  mountains  because  so  many  people  have 
weak  hearts,  or  corns  on  their  toes,  and  are  not  equal 


ANOTHER  LETTER  97 

to  climbing  mountains.  If  you  tell  them  that  you 
cannot  have  eagles  without  mountains,  and  that  the 
plain  ideal  only  produces  partridges  and  rooks,  these 
insufferable  cravens  will  answer  that  the  world 
wants  partridges  but  can  get  on  perfectly  without 
eagles.  They  would  as  soon  see  a  partridge  on  their 
flags  as  an  eagle  —  indeed,  sooner.  A  sheep  ram- 
pant should  be  their  sign. 

* '  Socialism  demands  light  without  shade,  or  rather 
eternal  twilight ;  and  yet,  if  you  will  believe  it,  there 
are  famous  artists  —  eagles  —  who  call  themselves 
Socialists !  An  artist  crying  for  equality !  Is  it  con- 
ceivable? Happily  equality  is  an  impossibility  and 
contrary  to  Nature.  We  can  better  Nature  at  the 
start;  we  can  fight  to  lessen  her  outrageous  handi- 
caps ;  we  can  toil  for  the  unborn,  which  she  does  not, 
in  any  rational  sense;  we  can  see  all  men  start  fair, 
but  we  cannot  help  all  to  win ;  for  that  would  be  to 
have  light  without  shadow,  and  life  without  death. 
We  know  that  a  man  miserably  born  will  be  likely 
miserably  to  die,  and  we  can  consider  the  hypothetic 
failure,  and  even  save  him  the  necessity  of  coming 
into  the  world;  but  once  arrived,  we  cannot  promise 
him  victory,  or  stand  between  him  and  defeat.  And 
I  hope  we  never  shall,  for  anything  more  mean  and 
paltry  than  a  world  reduced  to  that  dead  norm,  with 
passion,  danger,  difficulty,  and  terror  banished  from 
it,  and  a  man's  highest  power  to  be  at  the  mercy 
of  the  busy,  parochial-minded  trash  that  serves  on 
committees  and  councils  and  parliaments,  and  calls 
itself  the  State  —  ugh ! 

"  Of  course,  it  will  happen  some  day.  We  shall 
try  this  monstrous  thing  and  make  a  rabbit-warren 


08  THE  JOY  OF  YOUTH 

of  Europe;  and  then  men  will  discover  again  that 
goodness  is  impossible  without  badness,  and  content 
without  discontent;  and  they  will  incidentally  find 
that  it  is  better  to  have  poverty  and  wealth  than 
neither,  and  beauty  and  ugliness  than  neither,  and 
life  and  death  than  mere  duration.  And  they  will 
find  that  it  is  better  to  live  in  the  grand  manner  if 
you  are  a  grand  man,  than  exist  with  the  community 
of  the  sheep,  or  harbour  with  the  coneys  in  mean 
holes  and  burrows.  We  shall  try  Socialism,  and 
then  an  Eagle  will  screech  again  suddenly,  and  the 
herd  will  run  as  usual  to  shoot  it;  but  they  won't 
shoot,  for  the  screech  will  come  like  the  voice  of  a 
new  evangel  to  that  slave  race.  It  will  turn  on  its 
smug,  blood-sucking  army  of  officials  and  sacrifice 
them  to  the  Eagle. 

"  And  I  tell  you.  Miss  Merton,  that  Art  is  going 
to  be  the  grand  enemy  of  Socialism,  and  will  come 
into  her  own,  perhaps  a  century  hence,  when  Ra- 
tionalism has  made  good  its  humanist  claims.  Peo- 
ple seem  to  think  that  art  and  rationalism  are  terms 
mutually  exclusive,  and  yet  was  it  not  from  the 
Golden  Age  of  pure  reason  that  Art's  mightiest 
manifestations  are  chronicled?  I  grant  that  the  in- 
spiration was  victorious  war;  but  let  evolution  do 
her  perfect  work,  and  then  shall  come  a  time  when 
inspiration  springs  from  victorious  peace.  The  new 
paths  will  cross  the  old  some  day,  and,  given  that 
terrific  goad  to  creative  instinct,  a  hurricane  of 
mighty  art  will  sweep  over  the  earth.  Yes,  we  shall 
have  a  victory  won  by  pure  reason  —  a  victory  that 
will  announce  to  civilisation  that  its  quarrels  must  no 
more  be  settled  by  the  death  of  innocent  men.     Then, 


ANOTHER  LETTER  99 

against  war's  laurels,  shall  blossom  and  fruit  the 
olive  of  peace,  in  whose  sweet  shade  a  new  and  stu- 
pendous re-birth  of  art  will  flourish. 

'*  There  are  unutterable  splendours  waiting  in  the 
mines  of  the  human  intellect,  as  in  the  marble  quar- 
ries of  Carrara  —  wondrous,  prisoned  spirits  of  poetry 
biding  their  time  for  happiness  to  drag  them  forth; 
and  in  the  triumph  of  Peace,  our  somnolent,  senile 
world  will  again  grow  young  and  renew  the  blood 
in  its  veins  with  the  joy  of  youth.  You  and  I  can 
feel  the  joy  of  youth  in  our  very  selves,  because 
we  are  so  gloriously  young,  and  it  belongs  to  us  to 
feel  it,  for  there  is  no  blemish  on  our  marble  yet; 
our  minds  move  swiftly  and  our  bodies  obediently 
leap  to  minister  to  our  will ;  we  work,  and  are  never 
weary;  we  eat,  and  are  always  hungry.  Time  seems 
an  eternity  when  we  look  ahead  and  perceive  how 
much  belongs  to  us  —  to  use  in  enjoyment  and  mak- 
ing of  beautiful  things;  but  the  poor  old  world  is 
like  ^son,  and  cries  out  for  a  Medea  to  renew  its 
youth  with  enchantment,  cure  its  aches  and  pains  and 
heal  its  sickness,  so  that  it  shall  be  sane  and  whole 
and  sweet  again. 

'  *  Now  you  see  why  Art  is  my  God ;  and  I  worship 
her,  though  she  is  not  on  the  throne  of  the  earth 
at  present,  or  likely  to  be  yet  awhile. 

**  Bruno  says  a  great  thing  —  that  Art  is  outside 
matter  and  Nature  inside  matter. 

"  What  we  call  Nature  seems  to  me  a  property  of 
matter,  and  everything  that  can  happen  to  matter 
is  natural  —  or  it  couldn't  happen.  Everything, 
therefore,  that  has  ever  happened  or  will  ever  hap- 
pen is  the  result  of  a  dynamical  force,  working  from 


100  THE  JOY  OF  YOUTH 

inside  matter  —  the  force  we  call  Nature.  But  how 
about  Art?  Here  is  a  terrific  force  working  ou 
Nature  from  the  outside.  Does  Art  do  anything  to 
Nature,  or  is  she  merely  a  sort  of  plucking  and 
choosing  and  re-sorting  and  re-stating  of  Nature's 
boundless  material?  Are  we  merely  rag-pickers  or 
bower-birds  —  we  that  make  things? 

"  A  great  many  who  profess  and  call  themselves 
artists  are  no  more  than  that;  but  the  live  creator  is 
greater  than  Nature,  because  he  can  make  greater 
things  than  she  can.  That's  the  point.  The  cri- 
terion of  Ruler  Art  is  whether  it  follows  or  leads 
Nature.  Nature  makes  a  woman ;  Praxiteles  carves 
the  Cnidian  Venus.  Nature  makes  horses  and  men; 
Pheidias  creates  the  frieze  of  the  Parthenon  or  the 
groups  of  the  pediment.  Nature  plans  the  human 
heart  in  all  its  relations ;  Shakespeare  writes  Hamlet 
and  Lear.  Nature  has  managed  the  skylark  and  the 
nightingale  and  the  grey  bird,  the  thunder  and  the 
wind,  the  noise  of  many  waters,  the  song  of  the  rain 
and  the  drip  of  leaves;  Beethoven  creates  the  Fifth 
Symphony  and  makes  a  cosmos  of  music  out  of  a 
chaos  of  all  natural  melody.  Ruler  Art  surely  em- 
braces the  highest  achievements  of  the  human  mind; 
and  the  mind,  being  Nature's  work,  it  seems  that 
Nature  herself  has  given  us  the  weapon  to  be  greater 
than  she  is  —  the  weapon  with  which  to  work  from 
outside  in  a  way  that  she  cannot.  Wasn't  that  sport- 
ing of  her? 

**  Art,  then,  is  my  God  —  so  far  as  I  can  see,  the 
only  possible  god  free  from  superstition  and  nonsense, 
the  god  that  knocks  Nature  into  shape  and  shows  her 
the  infinite  glories  and  possibilities  that  belong  to  her. 


ANOTHER  LETTER  101 

"  And  now  I  will  leave  you  in  peace  till  you  come 
to  Firenze.  Then  you  will  find  that  you  have  not 
yet  begun  to  live,  but  merely  existed,  as  a  lovely  and 
radiant  creature  whose  powers  of  feeling  and  enjoy- 
ing are  yet  unknown,  and  whose  power  to  make 
kindred  spirits  feel  and  enjoy  are  also  hidden. 

"  I  hope  you  will  let  me  take  trouble  for  you  here, 
because  such  trouble  would  give  delight  to  the 
painter, 

"  Bertram  Dangerpield,  " 


CHAPTER  X 

THE   MIND   OF   THE   BARONET 

Miss  Spedding  and  Sir  Ralegh  rode  together  to 
hounds.  The  pack  was  ahead  with  huntsman  and 
"  whipper-in,"  and  they  jogged  behind.  It  was  a 
bright,  fresh  morning,  and  at  Haldon  edge  every 
breath  of  the  wind  brought  a  shower  of  leaves  from 
the  fringe  of  the  woods.  The  man  and  woman  were 
happy  with  anticipation.  They  rejoiced  in  their  talk 
of  sport,  and  laughed  together  as  they  trotted  for- 
ward. He  wore  a  scarlet  coat,  and  his  horn  was 
tucked  into  the  breast  of  it. 

"  Do  you  remember  that  tricky  run  early  last  sea- 
son? "  he  asked.     "  The  one  under  Hey  Tor  Rocks." 

*'  Rather!  How  he  went  round  and  round!  My 
heart  sank  when  he  turned  the  second  time,  for  I 
knew  he  was  going  to  the  quarries." 

"  I  never  much  mind  losing  a  very  good  fox.  It's 
the  survival  of  the  fittest,  as  the  scientists  say.  The 
Dartmoor  foxes  can't  be  beaten  in  England  for 
pace. ' ' 

"  There'll  be  a  big  meet,  I  hope,  on  such  a  perfect 
morning. ' ' 

"  I  hope  so." 

**  Is  Loveday  coming?  " 

*'  No.  She's  got  a  painting  fit,  and  is  very  busy 
about  a  picture  of  the  pond." 


THE  MIND  OF  THE  BARONET    103 

"  She's  almost  given  up  riding." 

Sir  Ralegh's  face  clouded. 

"  It's  not  a  pleasure  to  her,  and  one  hasn't  the 
heart  to  press  it,  Nina." 

' '  Of  course  not.  But  what  a  pity !  She  does  look 
so  perfectly  lovely  on  horseback." 

*'  It  isn't  nerve  or  anything  like  that.  A  very  fine 
nerve.  It's  just  distaste.  She  gets  no  pleasure  from 
it." 

"  But  you  do?  " 

' '  Yes  —  I  love  to  see  her  out,  of  course.  But  one 
cannot  bother  her.  I  wish  that  —  however.  Of 
course,  art  is  a  very  fine  thing  in  its  way.  Only 
there's  a  danger  of  letting  it  rather  dominate  one 
apparently. ' ' 

"  I  expect  Mr.  Dangerfield  fired  her.  They  are  so 
one-sided,  these  '  artey  '  people.  They  seem  to  think 
that  nothing  else  matters." 

"  That's  just  what  they  do  think.  They  ruin  their 
perspective  of  life  and  get  everything  distorted. 
Dangerfield  made  no  pretence  about  it.  He  said  that 
if  the  world  was  ever  to  be  saved  from  itself.  Art 
would  save  it.  He's  an  atheist;  but  as  a  man  of 
the  world  and  one  who  has  thought  —  who  has  had 
to  think  —  I  am  not  shocked  by  the  opinions  and 
prejudices  of  other  people.  "We  discussed  these  mat- 
ters quite  temperately.  He  allows  himself  rather 
more  forcible  language  than  we  do  —  the  artistic  ex- 
aggeration, I  suppose.  No  doubt  it  is  picturesque  in 
a  way.  But  when  it  comes  to  dispassionate  argu- 
ment, the  more  restrained  the  language  the  better." 

*'  Of  course.     He  was  always  in  extremes." 

"  Still,  one  must  remember  his  age  and  the  blood 


104  THE  JOY  OF  YOUTH 

in  his  veins.  He  will  throw  over  all  this  nonsense 
presently.  A  Dangerfield  an  atheist!  It's  absurd 
on  the  face  of  it. ' ' 

"  Lady  Dangerfield  is  rather  queer  in  her  ideas, 
isn't  she?  " 

"  She's  not  a  Dangerfield." 

"  What  about  Florence?  Loveday  seems  bent 
upon  it." 

"  She  is;  and,  of  course,  if  she  wishes  to  go  to 
Italy,  she  must  do  so.  One  can't  dictate  to  a  grown 
woman,  and  nowadays  the  sex  —  well,  there's  a  free- 
dom and  liberty  that  seems  perfectly  right  and  rea- 
sonable enough  to  me;  though  to  my  mother,  the 
liberty  claimed  by  the  modern  girl  is  very  distaste- 
ful." 

*'  I  know  she  feels  like  that.  I'm  afraid  we 
shock  her,  Kalegh." 

"  You  never  do.  I  can  honestly  say  that  you  con- 
form to  all  her  standards  very  faithfully.  You 
hunt,  it  is  true;  but  then  you  are  what  she  calls  a 
*  sweet  woman  —  a  womanly  woman. '  You  visit  the 
poor  —  you  take  them  things,  and  talk  to  them  and 
cheer  them.  You  go  to  church;  you  are  sound  in 
your  political  opinions,  and  hate  women's  movements, 
and  don't  want  the  vote,  and  wouldn't  go  to  a  woman 
doctor  for  the  world." 

'  *  Very  old-fashioned,  in  fact. ' ' 

"  I  suppose  you  are,  Nina.  Now  my  Loveday,  as 
you  know,  without  meaning  it  an  atom,  does  tread 
very  hard  on  the  mother's  toes." 

"She's  so  inquiring  and  wonderful  —  Loveday. 
She's  so  interested  in  simply  everything.  I  think  it 
is  so  original  of  her  to  be  so  keen  about  the  world 


THE  MIND  OF  THE  BARONET  105 

outside.  To  me,  my  own  world  seems  so  full  that 
I  never  seem  to  want  to  know  anything  about  the 
world  outside  —  except,  of  course,  politics." 

"  I  know.  Really,  that's  a  very  sound  standpoint, 
in  my  opinion.  To  do  the  thing  nearest  one's  hand, 
and  to  do  it  well.  What  a  different  world  if  we  all 
were  content  with  that!  But  Loveday's  mind  is  un- 
doubedly  large.  I  shouldn't  call  it  by  any  means  a 
stable  mind,  and  it's  defiant  of  law  and  order,  as 
young  minds  often  will  be." 

'*  She  must  come  to  see  everything  with  your  eyes 
presently. ' ' 

''  I  hope  so.  That  seems  the  natural  and  happy 
plan,  doesn't  it?  One  wouldn't  wish  one's  wife  to 
be  a  mere  echo  of  oneself,  of  course.  I  respect  orig- 
inality—  yes,  it  is  very  right  to  have  one's  own 
point  of  view  and  thresh  out  the  problems  that  arise. 
But  it  seems  to  me  that  there  can  onl}^  be  one  possible 
answer  to  so  many  of  these  problems  if  you  happen 
to  be  a  gentleman,  and  think  and  feel  as  a  gentleman, 
and  recognise  the  grave  responsibilities  of  conscience 
under  which  a  gentleman  must  labour." 

"  Yes,  indeed,  that  is  so.  Loveday  goes  quite 
deeply  into  things.  Of  course,  not  really  deeply  — 
I  know  that.    But  she  seems  to  —  to  me. ' ' 

'  *  '  Not  really  deepl^y, '  Nina  ?  How  should  she  ? 
"What  can  she  possibly  know  of  the  great  causes  and 
differences  that  convulse  the  world  to-day?  This 
nonsense  about  art  being  a  serious  factor  in  the 
amelioration  of  the  human  lot  —  for  instance.  A 
moment's  examination  reduces  the  thing  to  a  joke,  of 
course.  Are  you  going  to  make  hungry  people  hap- 
pier by  hanging  pictures  on  their  walls?     Are  you 


106         THE  JOY  OF  YOUTH 

going  to  elevate  the  brutal  ignorance  of  unskilled  la- 
bour with  statues  and  music?  Loveday  is  rather  a 
dreamer,  and  there  is  the  danger  that  this  inclination 
to  dream  may  grow  upon  her.  But  '  Life  is  real : 
life  is  earnest,'  as  somebody  says.  However,  she'll 
go  to  Italy  in  the  spring,  and  I  hope  that  it  will  en- 
large her  mind,  and  so  on." 

' '  If  she  has  a  real  good  dose  of  pictures  and  things, 
she  may  begin  to  understand  the  significance  of  it 
all,  and  put  art  in  its  proper  place,"  suggested  Nina. 

''  That  might  very  likely  happen.  For  you  know 
how  sensible  she  is." 

'  *  Yes,  indeed  she  is  —  and  so  brilliant.  And  then 
she  would  come  back  better  pleased  with  England 
and  our  solid  ways." 

"  She  might  —  at  any  rate,  I  should  hope  and  ex- 
pect it.  There's  a  backbone  about  our  manners  and 
customs.  They  are  founded  on  fine  traditions.  "We 
are  an  old  and  a  wise  nation.  We  may  be  feared; 
we  may  not  be  universally  loved;  but  the  world  re- 
spects us.  The  world  respects  achievement.  Now 
in  Italy,  though  I  have  never  been  there,  things  must 
be  utterly  different.  She  cannot  fail  to  see  a  good 
deal  that  will  make  her  long  to  be  home  again,  don't 
you  think  so?  " 

*  *  I  'm  sure  she  will,  Ralegh  —  any  real  English 
girl,  like  Loveday,  must." 

**  There's  a  funny,  unconscious  sympathy  with 
other  nations  in  Loveday  —  a  sort  of  defiant  praising 
what  she  does  not  know  at  the  expense  of  what  she 
does  know." 

' '  Pure  *  cussedness  ' !  " 

**  I  think  I  am  a  tolerant  man,  Nina." 


THE  MIND  OF  THE  BARONET  107 

**  You  are  indeed.  You  can  make  allowances  for 
everything  and  everybody.     I  often  wonder." 

"  I  was  trained  to  it  from  childhood.  My  father 
was  greater  than  I.  He  had  a  breadth  and  a  power 
of  sympathy  and  a  gift  to  see  another  person's  point 
of  view  that  was  truly  astounding.  The  result  was 
that  every  man,  woman,  and  child,  high  and  low 
alike,  loved  him." 

"  You  are  doing  just  the  same." 

' '  Jolly  of  you  to  say  so.  I  wish  I  was.  But,  with- 
out prejudice,  it  would  surely  be  childish  and  illog- 
ical in  the  highest  degree  to  suppose  that  a  country 
like  Italy  could  be  better  in  any  way  than  ours.  Or 
half  as  good.  Its  constitution,  and  manners,  and 
customs,  and  laws,  and  so  on  —  all  still  chaotic.  So 
we,  who  are  fortunate  enough  to  live  under  an  ideal 
constitution,  must  reserve  our  judgment.  Indeed,  we 
had  better  look  at  home,  for  our  constitution  is  in 
deadly  peril,  since  a  fatuous  proletariat  has  trusted 
England's  fate  to  demagogues." 

"  She's  always  so  splendidly  enthusiastic — -Love- 
day,  I  mean." 

*'  I  know,  and  enthusiasm  is  a  very  fine  thing; 
but  cool  judgment  is  better.  I  hope,  if  she  does  go 
to  Italy  in  a  proper  spirit,  that  she'll  see  the  truth 
about  it,  and  won't  put  the  superficial  beauties  of 
nature  before  the  realities  that  underlie  the  Italian 
race  and  character.  Mountains  and  lakes  are  to  the 
country  just  what  pictures  and  statues  are  to  its  old 
palaces  and  villas.     D'you  follow  me?  " 

"  Yes,  I  quite  see." 

"  All  ornaments  and  superficialities.  The  great- 
ness of  a  nation  does  not  depend  upon  accidents  of 


108  THE  JOY  OF  YOUTH 

that  sort.  I  should  be  inclined  to  look  rather  to  its 
products  for  its  character.  That  may  seem  far- 
fetched to  you,  Nina  ?  ' ' 

"  Not  at  all.  You  have  thought  these  things  out, 
Ralegh.     You  are  never  far-fetched." 

*'  Yes,  there's  something  in  it.  And  a  nation 
whose  products  are  wine  and  silk.  Don't  you  think, 
in  a  sort  of  way,  it's  summed  up  in  that?  " 

"  I  do  —  I  quite  see.  They  are  light  things.  The 
world  could  get  on  perfectly  well  without  wine  and 
silk." 

"  Exactly.  Besides  —  Italian  wines  —  there  you 
are  in  a  nutshell.  Italian  wines!  What  are  they? 
They  simply  don't  exist  when  one  thinks  of  the  seri- 
ous vintages  of  the  world." 

**  Of  course  they  don't." 

**  I  wouldn't  say,  mind  you,  that  everything  Latin 
is  in  decadence  —  I  don't  go  so  far  as  that.  But  I 
do  believe  there  is  a  screw  loose  in  Italy.  I  don't 
find  a  balanced  judgment,  a  power  of  arguing  from 
cause  to  effect.  They  are  an  unstable  people  — 
emotional,  no  doubt  —  and  sentimental.  Look  at 
their  last  war  —  hysterical  greed!  " 

"  You  are  so  clever.  You  always  go  into  things  so 
deeply. ' ' 

"  No,  I  can't  claim  that.  My  danger  is  to  be  in- 
sular. I  fight  against  it.  But  one  gathers  the  trend 
of  European  ambition  pretty  correctly  if  one  reads 
The  Times,  as  I  do,  year  after  year.  So  I  warn 
Loveday  to  keep  an  open  mind,  and  not  to  rush  to 
extremes  or  welcome  novelty  too  quickly  —  just  be- 
cause it  is  novel.  That's  rather  fundamental  in  a 
way.     You  may  say  she's  summed  up  in  that.     She 


THE  MIND  OF  THE  BARONET   109 

always  welcomes  novelty;  while  I  always  distrust  it. 
I  think  my  way 's  the  wiser,  however. ' ' 

''I'm  sure  it's  the  wiser.  I  expect  she  will  come 
home  again  very  thankfully." 

"  I  should  hope  so.  In  fact,  my  mother,  to  my 
surprise,  rather  advocates  the  visit.  She  thinks  it 
will  get  this  '  poison,'  as  she  calls  it,  out  of  Love- 
day's  blood.  *  Let  her  have  her  fill  of  art,  and  then 
we'll  hope  that  she'll  come  back  sick  of  it  and  thank- 
ful to  get  into  the  pure  air  of  her  English  home 
again.'  That's  what  my  mother  says  —  just,  in  fact, 
what  you  say.     One  sees  her  argument. ' ' 

*'  How  long  will  Loveday  be  away?  " 

'*  I  suppose  six  weeks.  The  Neill-Savages,  in  the 
course  of  their  orbits,  are  to  be  at  Florence  next 
spring.  And  she  will  travel  with  them  and  stop 
with  them.  That  will  work  well,  I  hope.  The  la- 
dies know  the  world,  and  can  exercise  some  control 
and  supervision." 

* '  D  'you  think  so  —  over  Loveday  ?  ' ' 

"  Why  not?  " 

**  There  are  sure  to  be  acquaintances  of  yours  in 
Italy  at  that  time  too  ?  ' ' 

"  Sure  to  be.  Indeed,  there  are  friends  of  my  fa- 
ther who  live  at  Florence.  She  will  take  out  a  good 
many  introductions. ' ' 

"  Mr.  Dangerfield  would  know  everybody." 

"  I  should  doubt  it.  The  artists  and  advanced 
thinkers  —  as  they  call  themselves  —  he  may  know; 
but  not,  as  you  say,  '  everybody.'  He  is  a  case  of  a 
man  who  has  let  his  native  instincts  rather  suffer 
under  the  rank  growths  of  Italy.  There  is  a  lax- 
ness  and  indifference  to  bed-rock  principles.     In  one 


110  THE  JOY  OF  YOUTH 

thing,  however,  I  respect  him.  He  is  not  afraid  of 
work,  and  though  we  may  feel  that  art  is  far  from 
being  the  greatest  thing  that  a  strong  man  should 
employ  his  full  strength  and  power  upon,  yet,  since 
he  has  chosen  it,  I  do  admire  his  power  of  work. 
No  doubt  it  has  taken  many  years  of  immense  labour 
to  gain  his  facility  with  the  brush." 

"  He  has  made  rather  a  convert  of  you,  I  see,"  she 
said. 

"In     a    way,     yes.     There's     individuality     and 
strength  about  him.     He  lacks  tact  and  taste  and  re- 
serve and  reverence.     One  must  admit  that  he  for- 
got himself  sometimes.     But  there's  something  there. 
It's  the  Dangerfield  in  him.     I'm  a  student  of  char- 
acter, and  felt  a  personality  —  a  nature  that  may  do 
harm  in  the  world,  or  may  do  good,  but  will  cer- 
tainly do  one  or  the  other. ' ' 
*'  He  wasn't  colourless." 
**  Far  from  it  —  distinctly  interesting." 
''  What  did  Loveday  think  of  him?  " 
**  I  should  say  that  she  was  rather  dazzled." 
**  Naturally.     She  loves  art,  and  here  was  a  real 
live  artist,  and  so  good-looking." 

"  I  suppose  he  is  good-looking,  and  he's  certainly 
alive.     The  sort  of  man  to  influence  a  young  woman 
without  any  logical  faculty." 
Nina  considered. 

"  She  won't  see  much  of  him  in  Florence?  " 
"  Oh,  no.  She'll  find  several  of  my  mother's  old 
friends  there,  and  will  have  certain  social  duties  — 
invitations  to  accept,  and  so  on.  The  idea  is  a  few 
weeks  at  Florence,  and  then  the  Swiss  or  Italian 
Lakes  on  the  way  home." 


THE  MIND  OF  THE  BARONET   111 

"Lucky  girl!" 

'*  Yet  I'm  sure  you  don't  envy  her?  " 

**  I  do  and  I  don't.  One  ought  to  go  abroad;  it 
enlarges  the  mind  and  corrects  the  perspective,  and 
all  that  sort  of  thing.  And  yet  I  cannot  say  truly 
that  I'm  very  wildly  anxious  to  go.  There's  an- 
other side.  I've  known  clever  women  get  very  un- 
settled and  out  of  conceit  with  England  after  being 
away. ' ' 

**  Out  of  conceit  with  England,  Nina!  " 

*'  It  sounds  ridiculous;  but  it  does  happen." 

**  That  would  surely  argue  rather  an  unbalanced 
mind?  " 

*'  No  doubt  it  would.  As  for  me,  I  love  my  home 
and  my  simple  pleasures  and  my  friends.  I  think 
I  should  be  very  much  lost  in  Italy  and  thankful  to 
scamper  home  again  —  though  they  do  hunt  foxes 
on  the  Campagna  at  Rome." 

"  It  seems  rather  absurd  to  think  of  Italians  hunt- 
ing foxes,  doesn't  it?  In  fact,  anybody  but  English 
men  and  women." 

* '  It  does  somehow  —  I  don 't  know  why.  And  yet 
they  say  that  Italian  horsemen  are  the  best  in  the 
world." 

"  Who  say  so?  One  of  those  stupid  sayings  with- 
out a  particle  of  truth  in  it,  be  sure.  No,  no,  they 
may  paint  pictures  and  sing  songs  better  than  we 
can,  but  ride  to  hounds!  We  mustn't  be  asked  to 
believe  that.  If  there  is  one  sport,  and  that  the 
king  of  sports,  where  we  can  claim  precedence  be- 
fore the  world,  it  is  fox-hunting." 

**  Of  course  it  is." 

"I'd  far  rather  that  a  woman  were  insular  and 


112  THE  JOY  OF  YOUTH 

wrapped  up  in  her  country  and  home,  than  cosmo- 
politan and  given  over  to  general  interests  and  gen- 
eral indifference.  It  weakens  intensity  and  convic- 
tion to  roam  about  too  much  —  for  a  woman,  I  mean. 
Patriotism  and  enthusiasm  have  made  England  what 
it  is,  and  if  the  spread  of  education  and  in- 
creased facilities  of  travel  are  going  to  weaken  our 
patriotism  and  enthusiasm  for  our  country  and  its 
fame,  then  I  see  real  danger  in  them." 

"  I  know  some  people  who  say  that  if  the  Germans 
are  strong  enough  to  beat  us,  the  sooner  they  do  so 
the  better.  They  think  we've  '  bitten  off  more  than 
we  can  chew  ' —  it  was  their  expression  —  and  openly 
declare  that  they  will  not  be  a  bit  sorry  to  see  us 
reminded  that  we're  not  everybody." 

He  frowned,  and  even  flushed. 

"  It  makes  me  smart  to  hear  of  such  treachery  to 
our  traditions  and  ideals.  I'm  sorry  you  know  such 
people,  Nina." 

"  So  am  I,  and  I  don't  encourage  them,  I  assure 
you.  They  are  Little  Englanders,  and  when  I  told 
them  that  they  were,  they  denied  it,  and  answered 
that  if  I  had  travelled  round  the  world  three  times 
and  studied  the  ways  of  it  as  thoroughly  as  they  had, 
I  should  realise  that  even  England  has  no  special 
dispensation  to  differ  in  its  history  from  the  history 
of  all  other  conquering  nations  that  have  risen  and 
fallen.  In  fact,  they  thought  that  England  was  on 
the  *  down-grade  ' —  another  of  their  expressions,  not 
mine." 

' '  A  vulgar  phrase  and  only  found  in  the  mouths 
of  vulgar  people,"  he  assured  he'r.  "  '  Down- 
grade '!     How  richly  coarse  and  offensive  when  one 


THE  MIND  OF  THE  BARONET   113 

is  dealing  with  the  sacred  history  of  one's  own  na- 
tion! " 

*'  They  don't  see  anything  sacred  about  it." 

"  So  much  the  worse  for  them.  There  is  a  sort 
of  mind  that  welcomes  these  new  expressions.  They 
are  everywhere.  Our  legislators  do  not  hesitate  to 
use  them.  In  fact,  as  a  body,  the  speakers  in  the 
House  of  Commons  to-day  merely  reflect  the  vulgar 
diction  of  the  halfpenny  Press.  We  hear  and  read 
nothing  large  and  rounded  and  dignified  as  in  the 
days  of  the  —  the  older  men  —  your  Brights  and 
Gladstones  and  Pitts.  Bourgeois  brawling,  passages 
of  personalities,  loss  of  temper,  violence,  flagrant 
offence,  rough  and  tumble  speech,  and  the  colloquial- 
isms of  the  common  people  —  that  is  a  debate.  They 
cry  out  *  Rats!  '  across  the  floor  of  the  House,  and 
other  things  one  thought  only  grooms  and  stable-boys 
say.  The  old,  stately  rhetoric  and  studious  courtesy 
to  an  opponent,  the  rounded  period,  the  oratory,  the 
scholarly  quotation,  the  brilliance  and  passion  of 
conviction  —  all  are  gone.  Indeed,  there  is  no  con- 
viction. Instead,  we  have  a  cynical  crowd,  all  play- 
ing a  game,  and  all  knowing  that  they  are  playing 
a  game.  The  flagrant  bargains,  the  buying  and  sell- 
ing of  titles ;  *  the  gulf  fixed  between  ideal  legislation 
and  practical  politics,'  as  a  Cabinet  Minister  once 
wrote  to  me  —  it  is  all  very  sad  and  significant  to  a 
serious-minded  man  like  myself." 

She  gazed  upon  him  with  admiration  and  regard. 

"  I  suppose  nothing  would  make  you  stand  for 
Parliament?  " 

"  Nothing  but  my  country,"  he  answered.  "  If 
I    thought    that    I    could    serve    my    country    and 


114         THE  JOY  OF  YOUTH 

advance  its  welfare  by  seeking  a  seat,  I  should 
do  so,  as  a  duty  —  a  painful  duty  too.  But  I  can't 
see  that  any  good  purpose  would  be  served  by  it. 
I  should  feel  like  a  fish  out  of  water,  to  begin  with. 
And,  honestly,  I  believe  I  am  doing  more  good  here 
among  my  own  people,  helping  them  to  see  right  and 
guarding  them  as  far  as  I  can  from  the  impositions 
of  government,  than  I  should  be  doing  in  Parlia- 
ment. They  know  I  have  no  axe  to  grind  and  stand 
simply  for  what  I  think  honourable  and  just.  But 
I  shall  soon  be  a  voice  shouting  in  the  wilderness. 
Our  time  is  past,  and  the  nation  will  take  from  us 
landholders  the  soil  that  our  forefathers  won  from 
their  sovereigns  as  the  reward  of  heroism  and  sacri- 
fice and  fidelity.  Three  fine  words,  but  this  genera- 
tion thinks  that  it  knows  three  finer  ones  —  Liberty, 
Fraternity,  Equality.  Liberty  —  an  impossibility, 
because  contrary  to  nature;  fraternity  —  an  impossi- 
bility, for  how  can  different  orders  of  men  v/ith  oppo- 
site interests  fraternise  ?  Equality  —  an  impossibility, 
because  every  sense  of  what  is  fine  and  distinguished 
and  masterful  in  the  higher  man  cries  out  against  it. 
The  proletariat  is  driving  gentlemen  out  of  Parlia- 
ment altogether,  as  it  is  driving  them  off  the  parish 
councils  and  other  bodies.  It  offers  wages  —  a  pros- 
titution. No,  gentlemen  are  not  wanted;  they  stand 
in  the  way.  Gentlemen  will  be  as  extinct  as  the  dodo 
very  soon !  ' ' 

"  There  you  and  Mr.  Dangerfield  agree,  then,  for 
he  hated  Socialism,"  she  said. 

'*  So  much  the  better.  With  all  his  errors  of  opin- 
ion and  faulty  ideas,  no  doubt  largely  gleaned  in 
foreign  countries,   the   man  is  a  Dangerfield,   as   I 


THE  MIXD  OF  THE  BARONET    115 

said  before.  The  blood  in  his  veins  must  stand  be- 
tween him  and  anarchy,  though  unfortunately  it 
hasn't  prevented  him  from  developing  into  a  bounder. 
It  shows  how  environment  may  conquer  heredity. 
Myself  I  always  consider  environment  the  more  im- 
portant in  some  ways." 

"  You  are  so  clever  —  you  take  such  large,  tem- 
perate views,"  she  said,  and  he  was  gratified. 

**  Not  clever  —  not  clever  —  merely  logical.  It  is 
the  fashion  to  sneer  at  a  university  education  nowa- 
days; but  if  it  were  more  general,  England  would 
soon  be  better  equipped  to  speak  to  her  enemies  in 
the  gate.  For  then  many  more  men  would  think  as 
I  do." 

*'  Here  we  are!  "  cried  Nina. 

His  face  fell  as  he  looked  ahead. 

**  A  poor  field,  I'm  afraid,"  he  said. 


CHAPTER  XI 

lady  dangerfield  to  loveday 

''  Torquay. 
"  Dear  Loveday, — 

"  Here  I  am  in  the  old  villa  aften  ten 
years'  absence!  Torquay  is  not  what  it  was,  I  regret 
to  find.  There  is  a  great  falling  off  indeed,  and  *  we  ' 
are  no  longer  the  centre  of  creation.  The  authorities 
care  nothing  whatever  for  us  rich  old  bluebottles 
now.  The  villa  people  may  go  hang,  for  they  seek 
quite  a  different  sort  of  clients,  and  our  good  has 
become  a  matter  of  sublime  indifference.  To  enter- 
tain the  cheap  tripper  from  the  far  North  has  be- 
come Torquay's  first  joy  and  pride.  There  is  a 
tram-line,  upon  which  one  of  my  horses  fell  two  days 
ago.  It  was  '  Tommy,'  a  creature  of  highly  sensitive 
temperament.  His  spirit  failed  him  after  the  horrid 
adventure,  and  he  could  not  immediately  rise.  I  sent 
into  a  shop,  which  was  happily  at  hand,  and  pur- 
chased a  pair  of  thick  blankets,  for  the  day  was  ex- 
ceedingly cold.  We  covered  '  Tommy  '  and  minis- 
tered to  him,  and,  in  the  course  of  half  an  hour,  the 
poor  fellow  was  able  to  make  an  effort  and  get  on 
his  feet.  One  had  the  negative  pleasure  of  suspend- 
ing the  traffic  until  he  did  so.  This  is  an  example 
of  the  new  clashing  with  the  old.  We  have  piers, 
pavilions,  and  so  forth  —  all  for  a  sort  of  people  who 


LADY  DANGERFIELD         117 

did  not  know  that  Torquay  existed  ten  years  ago. 
But  they  have  found  it,  and  been  welcomed  by  their 
kind  here;  and  the  poor  goose  that  lays  the  golden 
eggs  is  having  her  throat  cut  very  quickly.  Per- 
haps the  townspeople  will  regret  us  when  we  are 
all  in  our  marble  tombs;  perhaps  they  won't.  No 
doubt  the  same  thing  is  happening  everywhere  else. 
The  end  is  in  sight  for  us  —  we  lilies  of  the  field 
who  have  neither  toiled  nor  spun. 

"  When  you  reach  my  age,  you  feel  that  the  best 
of  all  possible  worlds  belonged  to  your  youth,  and 
have  little  desire  left  for  novelty.  It  is  such  a  vul- 
gar era  —  this  electric  one.  People  don't  merely  do 
vulgar  things,  and  build  vulgar  houses,  and  enjoy 
vulgar  pleasures,  and  even  pray  vulgar  prayers  and 
hold  vulgar  religious  services,  and  so  forth;  but  they 
think  vulgar  thoughts.  My  nephew  is  right  there: 
the  minds  of  the  rising  generation  are  ugly  inside. 

"  Take  our  sex.  I  have  been  meeting  Suffragettes 
here  at  luncheon.  Their  attitude  is  really  most 
puzzling.  Woman  is  so  great  and  small  in  a  breath. 
She  will  save  a  man's  life  to-day;  and  to-morrow 
she'll  remind  him  of  the  debt  —  like  some  maid 
servant  who  has  lent  you  sixpence,  and  is  frightened 
to  death  that  you'll  forget  the  loan. 

"  The  man-hating  phrase  has  been  thrust  under 
my  nose  a  good  deal  here  —  here,  of  all  places!  A 
confirmed  man-hater  drank  tea  with  me  yesterday. 
Her  attitude  was  not  the  result  of  experience,  but 
merely  principle.  It  is  a  germ  in  the  air  that  gets 
hold  of  women  and  produces  an  inverted  instinct. 

**  I  alluded  to  the  way  that  certain  brave  men 
behaved  when  a  great  ship  sank  —  you  remember  — 


118  THE  JOY  OF  YOUTH 

and  I  asked  the  woman  what  she  thought  of  it. 
'  Why,  there  was  nothing  to  think  of,'  she  answered. 
'  I  didn't  bother  about  it.  We  all  know  that  men 
obey  their  own  laws;  and  one  is  that  the  port  light 
of  a  ship  is  red;  and  another  is  that  the  starboard 
light  is  green;  and  a  third  is  that,  in  case  of  wreck, 
the  women  and  children  go  into  the  boats  first.'  An 
inverted  instinct,  you  see  —  a  bias  that  gets  the  bet- 
ter of  everything  that  makes  a  woman  worth  while  — 
to  a  man.  But  the  truth  is  that  they  don't  want  to 
be  worth  while  to  a  man;  because  men  have  ceased 
to  be  worth  while  to  them. 

"  It  is  wrong.  A  woman  who  can't  feel  one  little 
emotion  over  self-sacrifice,  if  it's  male  self-sacrifice, 
or  heroism,  if  it's  male  heroism,  is  really  suffering 
from  poison;  and  she  is  better  isolated,  before  she 
infects  any  more  of  her  sisters.  One  doesn't  ask  us 
to  be  logical,  or  just,  or  reasonable,  or  temperate, 
or  self-contained,  or  any  of  the  things  that  would 
make  us  unnatural  and  spoil  us,  but  one  really  does 
ask  us  to  go  on  being  women. 

*'  I  explained  their  antagonism  and  secret  loath- 
ing of  the  male  in  this  way:  Women  have  suddenly 
had  the  run  of  learning,  and,  being  a  thousand  times 
more  industrious  than  men,  have  rushed  at  it,  like 
sheep  into  a  clover  field ;  and  they  have  stuffed  them- 
selves too  full.  They  are  ruined  as  the  black  people 
were  —  by  emancipation.  These  things  should  be 
done  gradually.  Men  starved  women  for  centuries; 
then  they  over-fed  them;  and  now  the  thinking 
women  are  all  suffering  from  too  much  food  on  an 
empty  brain.  They  can't  digest  it.  It's  making 
them  hate  themselves  for  being  women  at  all  —  like 


LADY  DANGERFIELD         119 

baby-girls,  who  cry  bitterly  because  they  are  not 
baby-boys.  Women  want  to  ignore  just  the  things 
that  nature  simply  won't  let  them  ignore,  and  they 
detest  men  for  mentioning  these  things.  They  say 
it 's  unmanly  and  hateful  of  men  to  remind  women  that 
they  are  women.  They  want  to  put  the  woman  in 
them  into  the  background  and  trample  on  it;  they 
flout  in  themselves  what  the  natural  man  has  been 
accustomed  to  regard  as  their  greatest  possessions. 
They  are  so  busy  hating  that  they  have  got  no  time 
to  remember  there  is  such  a  thing  as  love.  It  is, 
in  fact,  a  sort  of  suicide  that  they  are  committing. 
They  make  sex  a  crime,  these  epicene  things;  it  is 
ridiculous  to  call  them  *  feminists,'  for  they  hon- 
estly believe  —  owing  to  their  muddled  sex  instincts 
—  that  all  differences  between  men  and  women  are 
artificial  and  accidental,  not  natural  and  everlasting. 

"  If  you  called  a  modern  woman  *  a  ministering 
angel  '  now,  she'd  spit  at  you,  or  break  your  win- 
dows. Because  they  desire  to  substitute  for  their 
real  power  just  those  tedious  things  that  belong  to 
man's  mind  and  life  —  just  those  things  from  which 
he  seeks  to  escape  at  any  cost  when  he  comes  to 
women.  It's  the  woman  who  can  break  hearts  that 
will  always  have  power  over  the  men  best  worth  win- 
ning, not  the  woman  who  merely  breaks  windows. 
And  the  woman  who  can  break  hearts  will  always 
get  more  than  she  deserves,  while  the  woman  who 
can  break  windows  never  will. 

"  When  I  was  young,  we  were  rather  like  what 
your  betrothed  says  of  foxes:  we  didn't  mind  being 
hunted.  And  you  remember  the  warning,  *  When 
you   go   to    women,    don't   forget   your   whip.'    No 


120  THE  JOY  OF  YOUTH 

doubt  Nietzsche  did  forget  it,  and  so  suffered  a  sharp 
scratch  or  two,  and  grew  nasty  and  narrow-minded 
and  spiteful  about  us  all  in  consequence.  Still,  n 
man  oughtn't  to  dream  of  taking  his  eye  off  us  till 
he's  outside  the  bars  again.     I  admit  that  frankly, 

"  I  had  a  great  friend  once  when  I  was  young  — 
a  sportsman;  and  when  something  happened,  I  for- 
get what,  he  said  (after  he'd  grown  calm  again  and 
reconciled)  that  it  was  better  to  be  mauled  now  and 
then  than  never  have  any  big-game  shooting.  By 
which,  in  his  vigorous  and  open-air  fashion,  he  meant 
to  imply  that  women  are  the  biggest  game  of  all. 

"  But  they  won't  be  much  longer.  The  big-game 
women  are  dying  out.  The  woman  who  is  a 
rendezvous  for  discontented  husbands  and  the  preda- 
tory male  is  dying  out.  I  used  to  know  women  who 
could  bring  a  man  across  a  drawing-room  like  a 
hunting  spaniel  —  without  looking  at  him.  I  could 
myself. 

"  Hastings  Forbes  came  to  see  me  a  few  days  ago. 
He  is  still  sorry  for  his  tribulations.  But  he  is,  none 
the  less,  going  to  forgive  her,  as  I  knew  he  would. 
He  remarked  that  of  late,  before  his  tragedj?",  it  had 
seemed  to  him  that  his  wife  was  becoming  a  sort  of 
limited  company  —  in  which  he  hadn  't  enough 
shares. 

' '  *  The  allotment  always  lies  with  us, '  I  said ;  '  but, 
of  course,  a  married  woman  ought  to  send  out  noth- 
ing but  letters  of  regret.'  Still,  they  don't.  It's 
wonderful  what  a  lot  of  capital  they  can  manage  to 
employ  sometimes,  though  stupid  women  do  over- 
capitalise too. 

"  Don't  think  I  am  holding  up  Una  as  a  model  to 


LADY  DANGERFIELD         121 

you.  She's  only  a  survival  of  the  sporting  type.  It 
is  not  a  nice  type ;  still,  it  appealed  far  more  to  men 
than  the  latest  sort  of  woman,  and  it  had  infinitely 
more  power  over  them.  Una,  as  a  matter  of  fact, 
is  hedging,  and,  from  what  her  husband  let  drop,  I 
should  say  the  dentist  will  soon  be  done  for.  '  One 
can't  absolutely  quench  a  passion  of  so  many  years' 
standing,'  said  Hastings!  So  wily  of  him.  But  he 
implied  the  passion  was  for  Una,  not  comfort  and  a 
French  cook  and  all  that  Una  stands  for.  That's 
one  of  the  beauties  of  being  rich  and  lacking  a  con- 
science. It  enables  you  simply  to  snap  your  fingers 
at  Nemesis,  and  have  your  cake  and  eat  it  too.  An 
act  of  temporary  aberration,  I  expect  it  will  be  con- 
sidered. He  reminded  me  that  he  was  a  Christian, 
and  that  therefore  his  prerogative  was  to  forgive! 
Una  has  written  to  him,  and  quoted  Browning  about 
being  in  England  in  the  springtime ! 

' '  Of  course.  Wicks  will  be  fearfully  out  of  practice 
when  he  comes  back  to  work.  But  that  will  cure 
itself.  Forbes  talked  of  flogging  him  publicly  when 
he  returns.  But  I  told  him  not  to  be  selfish.  '  You 
have  exhibited  such  amazing  self-control,'  I  said, 
'  that  it  would  be  a  pity  if  you  spoiled  all  by  worry- 
ing the  dentist.  Be  sure  that  he  will  have  plenty 
to  worry  him  without  you.' 

'*  Strange  that  such  an  early  bird  as  Una  should 
have  cared  to  pick  up  this  particular  worm. 

'*  Go  and  see  my  dear  old  friend.  Judge  "Warner 
Warwick,  in  Florence  —  a  precious  old  Indian,  full 
of  fun  and  an  authority  on  Machiavelli.  He  will  tell 
you  much  that  is  interesting. 

"  I  shall  be  here  until  April,  unless  the  Revolution 


122         THE  JOY  OF  YOUTH 

comes  and  I  and  my  kind  are  swept  away  by  the 
local  celebrities  —  to  make  more  room  for  the  Goths 
and  Vandals  from  the  North. 

"  Your  affectionate  friend, 

**  Constance  Dangebfield/* 


CHAPTER  XII 

OF    THE   CROCUSES 

"  ROOKLANDS, 

"  3  March. 
"  Dear  Mr.  Dangerpield, — 

"  Since  I  wrote  to  thank  you  for  the  pres- 
ent you  sent  me  at  Christmas  —  the  beautiful  copy 
in  oils  of  Melozzo  da  Forli's  angel,  with  the  red 
sleeves  and  spike  of  Madonna  lily  —  I  have  been  very 
busy  reading  up  Florence,  or  Firenze.  And  I  want 
more  books,  still  more  books,  so  that  I  may  not  come 
out  a  dunce. 

**  I  need  to  hear  more  about  art,  too,  and  just 
what  sort  of  receptive  spirit  I  must  cultivate  before 
I  come. 

"  It  is  glorious  to  think  that  I  really  shall  be  there 
in  a  few  weeks,  and  breathe  Italy!  I  am  sure  it 
must  be  the  right  thing  for  me,  because  I'm  loving 
the  thought  of  it  so  much,  and  it  is  making  me  so 
nice  to  everybody.  Don't  you  think  that  that  is  one 
of  the  rather  beautiful  things  about  human  nature 
—  then  when  a  man,  or  woman,  is  really  very  happy 
and  hopeful  and  looking  forward  to  good  things, 
they  always  seem  to  become  angelic  and  anxious  to 
make  other  people  happy  and  hopeful  too  —  as 
though  they  wanted  their  own  full  cup  of  blessings 
to  brim  over  for  other  thirsty  lips?    But  I  suppose 


124  THE  JOY  OF  YOUTH 

you  would  say  that  anybody  can  be  angelic  when 
they  are  having  an  angelic  time.  Perhaps  I  really 
am  having  my  fun  with  Italy  now,  and  anticipation 
will  be  the  best  part  of  it. 

**  The  crocus  picture  came  up,  and,  I'm  sorry  to 
say,  it  also  came  out.  You  are  so  Italian,  or  Greek, 
or  something;  and  Lady  Vane  isn't,  and  my  Ralegh 
isn't  either.  So  when  the  dear  crocuses  glimmered 
out  of  the  green  in  their  gold  and  purple  and  snow- 
white,  and  proclaimed  to  the  world  those  startling 
words  that  '  Loveday  is  a  Darling,'  the  assertion 
was  hailed  with  shrieks  of  protest  and  proclaimed 
an  abominable  outrage,  and  the  poor  little  wretches 
—  about  two  thousand  of  them.  Fry  says  —  were 
dragged  out  neck  and  crop,  so  that  this  dreadful  an- 
nouncement should  disappear.  You  don't  under- 
stand English  people  a  bit.  '  It  wasn't  the  words 
that  frightened  the  birds,  but  the  horrible  ' —  fact 
that  you,  in  cold  blood  and  with  deliberate  and  deadly 
purpose,  could  dare  to  call  another  man's  sweetheart 
'  a  darling  '  in  this  manner,  and  even  publish  it  to 
the  world,  where  it  would  flash  out  year  after  year 
to  shock  succeeding  generations  of  the  countryside. 
Only  Fry  supported  it.  He  hated  having  to  dig  them 
up,  and  said  that  they  made  a  beautiful  picture,  and 
would  be  a  very  pleasant  and  permanent  joy  of  colour 
on  that  bank.  He  also  added  bluntly  that  it  wasn't 
as  if  you  'd  put  a  lie  there ;  but  you  'd  said  what  was 
perfectly  true,  and  he'd  like  to  see  the  man,  woman, 
or  child  that  could  contradict  it!  So  I  came  out  of 
it  in  rather  a  blaze  of  glory.  But  you  didn  't,  T  mourn 
to  say.  It's  a  question  of  *  good  form  '  and  '  com- 
mon decency,'  and  so  on.     If  anybody  else  had  put 


OF  THE  CROCUSES  125 

it  there,  it  would  have  been  the  same.  '  Emotional, 
and  silly,  and  un-English,  and  exceedingly  imperti- 
f  nent,  coming  from  a  stranger  ' —  so  Lady  Vane  says. 
'  A  bit  thick  ' —  that 's  what  Patrick  Spedding  called 
it.  And  my  dear  Ralegh  is  hurt  (down  deep  out  of 
sight  somewhere)  that  you  could  have  even  thought 
about  me  by  my  Christian  name,  let  alone  deliber- 
ately traced  the  sacred  word  with  a  stick  on  the 
Vanestowe  grass  and  plant  it  out  in  crocuses!  And 
—  an  amazing  thing  —  when  I  argue  that  it  wasn  't 
a  capital  offence,  and  that  you  are  young  and  not 
old  enough  really  to  know  better,  Ralegh  twirls  his 
moustache  and  almost  sighs,  and  seems  to  think  that 
I'm  very  nearly  as  bad  as  you!  He  believes  that 
if  I  had  any  proper  feeling,  I  ought  to  cut  you  for 
evermore  after  such  a  performance;  and  yet,  for  the 
life  of  me,  I  can't  see  why  a  piece  of  frivol  like  that 
is  any  worse  than  dozens  of  things  men  say  to  me. 
I  suppose  you  can  say  things  you  can't  write,  and 
write  things  you  can't  print  in  crocuses  at  large  on 
such  a  self-respecting  garth  as  Vanestowe.  I  only 
tell  you  about  it  because  you'll  not  care  a  button; 
no  more  do  I.  I  think  it  was  jolly  of  you  —  a  sin, 
of  course,  but  quite  a  venial  sin.  I'm  only  really 
sorry  for  the  poor  crocuses.  I  suggested  to  Ralegh 
that  he  should  re-arrange  them,  and  let  Fry  plant 
them  out  again  in  these  grim  but  true  words :  *  Bert- 
ram is  a  Bounder  ' ;  yet  no,  he  seems  to  fear  he  will 
never  smile  again.  He  has  forgiven  you,  being  a 
good,  dear  thing,  who  never  can  harbour  an  unkind 
thought  against  anything  but  hawks  and  weasels ;  but 
Lady  Vane  has  not;  and,  what's  more,  she  hasn't  for- 
given me.     Which  is  rather  hard  —  don 't  you  think  ? 


126         THE  JOY  OF  YOUTH 

I  assured  her  that  I  had  not  the  most  shadowy  idea 
of  what  you  were  doing,  and  thought  you  were  merely 
planning  the  Vane  coat-of-arms,  or  some  such  great 
and  glorious  design;  but  she  doesn't  believe  me.  I 
don't  think  she  ever  does  believe  me.  But  these  per- 
sonalities cannot  possibly  interest  you.  I'm  longing 
to  see  some  of  your  pictures.  I  shan't  try  to  paint 
in  Italy,  whatever  the  temptation.  I  shall  go  in  for 
learning  Italian  instead;  and  you'll  have  to  find  some 
clever  person  to  teach  me. 

**  By  the  way,  I  want  two  more  copies  of  the 
Forli  angel  for  friends,  who  are  going  to  be  married. 
It's  such  an  original  gift;  so  please  ask  the  little 
artist  you  mentioned,  who  copies  it  so  beautifully,  to 
paint  me  two  more.  And  I  also  want  a  copy  of  that 
darling  cherub,  with  scarlet  and  silver  wings  and  a 
little  curly  head  bending  over  his  lute  —  Kossi 
Fierentino  —  wasn't  it?  I  made  up  a  sonnet  about 
him  —  just  from  that  picture  postcard  you  sent  me! 
Oh,  yes,  you  stare,  but  I  can  make  sonnets,  given  the 
right  inspiration.  Of  course,  nobody  who  is  any- 
body could  possibly  go  to  Firenze  without  making 
sonnets.  But  have  no  fear  —  I  shan't  ask  you  to  read 
them. 

'*  Fry  wants  to  be  remembered  to  you.  He  liked 
you,  so  be  proud.  It  is  always  a  great  compliment 
for  a  young  thing  to  be  liked  by  an  old  thing;  and 
yet  the  young  things  always  seem  to  take  it  for 
granted.  He  liked  you,  because  you  love  work  and 
are  not  frightened  by  difficulties.  The  time  is  soon 
coming  for  the  rhododendron  seedling  to  bloom. 
There  will  be  a  solemn  hush  in  the  woods  when  the 
great  day  arrives,  and  all  the  old  father  and  mother 


OF  THE  CROCUSES  127 

rhodos  will  bend  down  with  anxiety  and  hope  to  see 
what  has  been  born.  I  shan't  be  there,  but  in  Italy. 
But  Fry  is  going  to  send  me  just  three  flowers  from 
the  first  truss  to  blow,  if  it  is  worthy.  I  wonder 
what  Nature  has  arranged  ? 

*'  Lady  Dangerfield  has  gone  to  Torquay.  She  is 
very  well,  and  has  ordered  four  new  birds.  Two 
died  in  the  winter  —  little  grey  and  rose-coloured 
things.  She  misses  them,  but  seems  glad  that  both 
died  and  not  only  one.  They  always  sat  together 
side  by  side,  and  she  thinks  that  one  gave  the  other 
the  fatal  cold.  She  also  believes  that  it  was  in- 
fluenza followed  by  pneumonia  that  killed  them. 

"'  This  letter  seems  to  grow  more  and  more  thril- 
ling, so  I  will  break  off,  that  you  may  not  get  over- 
excited. 

*'  Write  to  me  about  Firenze  and  art  and 
Bergson.  Especially  Bergson.  For  why?  Because 
somewhere,  somehow,  my  Ralegh  has  heard  about 
him,  and  been  told  that  he  combines  the  very  latest 
philosophy  and  highest  ethics  wdth  the  truths  of 
Revelation.  Of  course,  this  is  just  what  Ralegh  has 
been  wanting  for  years.  Will  he  find  Bergson 
'  grateful  and  comforting,'  d'you  think?  As  far  as 
I  can  remember  the  dim  past,  you  did  not.  Tell  me 
some  things  that  I  can  bring  out  to  dazzle  Ralegh 
about  Bergson. 

' '  Good-bye.  I  hope  you  are  painting  well,  and  are 
satisfied  (or  fairly  satisfied)  with  the  beautiful  things 
that  you  are  making. 

"  Sincerely  yours, 

"  LOVEDAY  MerTON." 


CHAPTER  XIII 

THE  painter's   CONTRITION 

"  CoRSO  Regina  Elena,  Firenze. 
"  8  March. 
"  Dear  Miss  Merton, — 

' '  Thank  you  ever  so  much  for  your  charm- 
ing letter.  I  was  delighted  to  get  it,  and  devastated 
to  hear  of  the  destruction  of  the  crocuses.  Consid- 
ering the  matter  critically  and  after  a  great  effort 
of  imagination,  I  think  I  see  Sir  Ralegh's  point  of 
view.  He  would  deem  it  rather  a  homely,  lower 
middle-class  sort  of  thing  to  put  any  words  into  the 
grass;  and  if  I'd  arranged  '  God  is  Love  '  or  *  We 
want  the  Vote,'  he  would  have  resented  it  equally. 
A  severe  and  chaste  design  he  might  have  tolerated 
—  nothing  else;  and  to  make  a  bald  statement  of  an 
everyday  fact  —  familiar,  of  course,  to  the  whole 
world  —  no  doubt  struck  him  as  banal  and  bourgeois 
to  a  degree.  Probably  he  is  right.  I  am  not  pre- 
pared to  argue  about  it  or  justify,  my  conduct.  I 
merely  apologise.  It  is  all  so  long  ago  and  I  am  so 
young.  Besides,  you  mustn't  apply  English  stand- 
ards to  me.  Here  the  thing  would  hardly  have  led 
to  a  duel. 

"  My  valued  friend,  Amedio  Barsi,  the  painter, 
will  send  you  two  more  Forli  angels  as  he  can.  For 
the  moment  the  poor  man  is  in  a  hospital,  sick.     But 


THE  PAINTER'S  COXTRITION    129 

he  will  soon  be  well  again,  and  only  too  glad  to  re- 
turn to  his  dear  angel.  The  angel  is  curiously  woven 
into  his  life  as  a  part  of  it.  He  calls  her  his 
Guardian  Angel,  and  is  quite  idolatrous  about  her. 

*'  I  rejoice  to  know  that  you  are  coming  out,  and 
am  working  like  three  men  in  consequence,  that  I 
may  spare  you  a  few  hours  wdth  a  good  conscience 
when  you  do  come.  My  '  demon  '  is  certainly  not 
an  angel,  but  a  horrible,  tireless  fiend  that  makes 
me  crave  for  work  as  other  men  crave  for  pleasure. 
It  is  mean  and  rather  contemptible,  this  lust  for  mak- 
ing things  morning,  noon,  and  night;  but  I  cannot 
escape.  I  am  dominated,  and  if  I  play  about  for 
long  and  let  the  things  that  cry  to  be  made  remain 
unmade,  their  fleshless  ghosts  soon  begin  to  punish 
and  torture  and  torment  me.  People  say,  '  How  joy- 
ful always  to  be  turning  your  dreams  into  realities  ' ; 
but  I  am  doubtful  about  the  joy.  It's  a  battle,  and 
the  victories  are  few,  and  the  spirits  of  many  failures 
haunt  your  path  and  shake  their  dismal  locks  at  you. 
I'm  always  thankful  the  critics  and  people  never 
see  my  dreams;  because  if  they  did,  no  kind  word 
should  I  have  for  the  things  done  —  they  fall  so  far 
short  of  the  things  seen. 
''Well,  Art? 

"I'm  glad  you  can't  keep  away  from  it;  and  I 
.  shall  go  on  my  knees  to  see  the  sonnets  that  Fierenze 
is  to  inspire ! 

"  It  was  a  son  of  the  soil,  Benedetto  Croce  (you 
must  read  him),  who  said  the  vital  word  and  swept 
so  many  wrong  ideas  into  limbo.  From  the  great 
concept  that  art  is  expression,  he  reached  higher,  to 
the  evangel  that  all  expression  is  art.     This  is  to  say 


130         THE  JOY  OF  YOUTH 

'  good-bye  '  to  rules  and  laws  and  critical  parapher- 
nalia— '  the  prattle  of  chambermaids,'  as  Montaigne 
called  them  a  long  time  ago.  Everything,  then, 
stands  or  falls  by  itself;  everything  belonging  to  the 
individual  work  lies  inside  it  —  a  fact  that,  of  course, 
disposes  of  the  trashy  criticism  that  comes  to  a  work 
of  art  vitiated  by  religious  or  political  or  other  do- 
mestic predispositions.  But  though  a  modern  writer 
has  said  that  no  critic  of  authority  now  tests  art  by 
the  standard  of  ethics,  he  is  unfortunately  mistaken. 
If  he  had  said,  '  no  critic  of  knowledge,'  he  might 
have  been  right,  but  authority  is  represented  by  the 
journal  in  which  the  critic  writes,  and  many  au- 
thoritative journals  publish  art  criticism  saturated 
with  religious  or  other  prejudice.  We  even  submit 
to  economic  dictation  in  the  matter,  and  pictures  can- 
not be  exhibited  or  books  circulated,  if  in  the  opinion 
of  certain  tradesmen  it  would  be  *  bad  business  '  to 
do  so.  Modern  criticism  must  be  an  ignorant  and 
insincere  and  feeble  mess,  so  long  as  there  is  no  man 
brave  enough  to  denounce  this  infamous  scandal,  or 
big  enough  to  be  heard  if  he  did  so. 

"  '  We  must  interpret  expression,'  says  an  honest 
critic  —  Spingarn,  the  American ;  and  another  good 
thing  he  says:  that  taste  must  reproduce  the  work 
of  art  within  itself,  to  understand  and  judge.  Then, 
at  that  supreme  moment,  agsthetic  judgment  itself 
rises  into  the  empyrean  of  creative  art.  That's  what 
great  criticism  means,  and  that's  what  it  ought  to 
do ;  but  where  is  such  criticism  written  to-day  ?  Such 
criticism  is  art ;  but,  w^hen  all  is  said,  Spingarn  knows 
very  well  that  a  gulf  is  fixed  between  the  critic  and 
the  creator  —  a  gulf  about  as  wide  as  that  between 


THE  PAINTER'S  CONTRITION    131 

a  god  and  the  universe  that  he  has  made.  '  Intel- 
lectual curiosity,'  he  says,  '  may  amuse  itself  by  ask- 
ing its  little  questions  of  the  silent  sons  of  light,  but 
they  vouchsafe  no  answer  to  art's  pale  shadow, 
thought. ' 

''  If  art's  shadow  were  really  thought,  though — ■ 
pale  or  red  —  we  might  get  forwarder.  I  should 
like  to  hear  how  many  modern  critics  do  think,  or 
are  concerned  to  tell  us  workers  in  large,  general 
terms  what  we  want  to  learn  and  ought  to  know. 
Art  should  be  compact  of  reticence  and  sacrifice,  but 
who  is  tempted  to  reticence  or  sacrifice  by  the  critics 
of  to-day?  They  miss  the  reticent  work,  just  as  the 
public  misses  it;  they  share  the  rush  and  hurry  and 
over-production  and  shouting  and  struggling  for 
foothold.  Like  the  rest  of  the  world,  they  simply 
haven't  got  time  to  bother  about  us.  Art  is  just 
as  much  outside  them  as  it  is  outside  the  rest, 
and  criticism  is  merely  their  living,  not  their 
life. 

**  The  attitude  of  the  world  to  artists  is  rather  in- 
teresting, and  it  would  be  amusing  if  it  wasn't  so 
offensive.  It  doesn't  come  to  us  to  learn  from  us;  it 
comes  to  see  its  own  stupid,  owlish,  clownish  ideas 
and  opinions  and  values  and  points  of  view  reflected. 
It  doesn't  want  us  to  show  it  anything  it  can't  ses 
for  itself,  or  make  it  think  anything  it  hasn  't  already 
thought.  If  one  has  some  mean  trick  of  painting 
mist  or  imitating  marble,  or  some  sickly,  sentimental 
knack  of  story-telling,  or  some  broadly  comic  power 
of  rendering  the  outside  of  mankind,  that  is  enough. 
The  world  then  recognises  you  for  a  brother;  your 
eyes  see  with  the  same  focus  as  its  own,  and  you  can 


132         THE  JOY  OF  YOUTH 

paint  mist,  or  marble,  or  fuzzy-headed  children  for- 
ever, and  take  your  place  among  the  great  and  good. 
But  justify  your  existence;  show  the  world  w^hat  it 
cannot  see  for  itself ;  render  form  and  colour,  as  found 
and  understood  by  you  after  years  of  patient  labour 
and  devotion ;  mix  your  medium  with  loyal  courage 
to  noble  ideals,  and  the  world  will  either  snigger  or 
swear. 

"  Of  artists,  then,  it  may  indeed  be  said  that  only 
'  their  soul's  light  overhead  '  leads,  or  will  ever  lead 
them.  They  answer  to  their  mistress,  but  the  mart 
understands  them  not.  Their  work  is  translated  into 
cash  by  the  world  afterwards;  who  knows  or  cares 
about  the  austerities  and  penances  that  went  to  make 
it?  The  only  question  is  whether  the  man's  achieve- 
ment is  a  good  investment  —  whether  his  fame  is 
waxing  or  waning. 

''  And  they  who  batten  in  the  porches  of  art  and 
get  their  living  there  —  by  criticising  or  selling  — 
what  do  they  care  or  know  about  the  men  who  made, 
and  still  make,  the  food  on  which  they  feed  and 
grow  fat?  No,  we  are  alone  —  each  absolutely  and 
magnificently  alone :  public,  critics,  middlemen  — 
all  misunderstand  us  —  not  wilfully,  but  simply  be- 
cause it  is  their  nature  to.  So  I  ask  you  to  begin 
with  a  kindly  view  of  the  creators.  Come  to  them 
here  as  one  who  feels  some  sense  of  their  labours, 
immense  difficulties  and  disappointments  in  the  life- 
long battle  to  which  they  were  called.  And,  from 
that  standpoint,  you  will  be  surprised  to  find  how 
comprehensible  they  grow,  for  sympathy  is  the 
mother  of  understanding. 

**  Read  the  lives  of  the  Renaissance  men  as  a  start. 


THE  PAINTER'S  CONTRITION    133 

They  must  interest  you  very  much,  and  be  the  right 
foundation  to  build  upon  before  you  come  here. 

"  I  can't  talk  about  Bergson,  just  for  the  above 
reason,  that  the  sympathy  and  the  understanding 
don't  belong  to  me.  He  says  somewhere  that 
*  physics  is  but  logic  spoiled.'  His  mind  is  photo- 
graphed in  that  proposition.  He  thinks  it  a  dread- 
ful '  come  down  '  for  Ideas  to  be  scattered  into  a 
physical  series  of  objects,  and  for  events  to  be  placed 
one  after  the  other.  Of  course,  I  should  put  it  just 
the  reverse  way,  and  say  that  logic  is  mind  stuff 
spoiled  and  the  most  deadly  waste  of  time  possible 
for  a  human  intellect. 

"  He  is  very  fine  at  times,  and  I'm  an  artist  too, 
and  recognise  it.  His  idea  of  life  as  a  wave  swoop- 
ing down  upon  matter,  creating  a  vortex  of  the  op- 
position, yet  rushing  on  at  one  point  to  man  —  that's 
a  great  artistic  inspiration;  and  he's  full  of  things 
like  that  —  rhetoric  and  purple.  But  science  scorns 
such  stuff,  and  so  must  I  in  connection  with  philoso- 
phy. Because  I'm  a  monist  (just  at  present),  and 
Bergson 's  a  dualist,  and  a  deadly  dualist  too.  Take 
his  *  Meaning  of  Evolution,'  After  some  gorgeous 
poetry,  that  I've  mentioned  before,  about  how  life 
differs  in  different  worlds,  and  how  it  appears  when- 
ever energy  descends  the  incline  and  a  cause  of  in- 
verse direction  retards  the  descent  —  after  showing 
that  we  carbon  people  needn't  think  we  are  every- 
body, but  that  a  lovelier  and  a  livelier  folk  may 
easily  be  imagined  as  dwelling  in  lovelier  and  livelier 
planets  than  this  —  what  does  he  do  1 

"  He  horrifies  me,  smothers  me,  and  strangles  my 
most  cherished  ideas  by  saying  that  conscience  and 


134  THE  JOY  OF  YOUTH 

brain  are  only  as  the  knife  and  the  sharp  knife-edge, 
and  that  they  are  no  more  co-extensive  than  the  knife 
and  the  knife-edge!  Can  you  think  the  edge  away 
from  the  knife?  No,  I'll  swear  you  can't  —  or  any- 
body else.  Can  you  think  the  sharpness  away  from 
the  edge?     Only  if  you  substitute  bluntness. 

*  *  Then  —  worst  of  all  —  leaving  me  flattened  out, 
dished  and  diddled  and  undone,  he  actually  asserts 
that  the  difference  between  the  conscious  and  the  un- 
conscious brain  is  the  difference  between  the  closed 
and  the  open  —  a  difference,  not  of  degree,  but  of 
kind!  So  much  for  his  Evolution!  Now  that's  not 
metaphysics  at  all,  but  physics  naked  and  unashamed ; 
and  as  a  monist  I  simply  shriek  with  horror,  and 
turn  up  the  whites  of  my  eyes,  and  lift  imploring 
hands  to  science  to  come  to  the  rescue. 

*'  Bergson  asserts  that  a  difference  of  k«ind,  not 
degree,  separates  man  from  the  rest  of  the  animal 
world;  and  that's  a  statement  to  be  swiftly  slain  by 
those  qualified  to  slay  it.  Indeed,  it's  already  done. 
Sir  Ray  Lankester  was  the  executioner. 

"  Professor  Bergson  is  a  remarkable  phenomenon 
—  an  intellect  turned  against  intellect,  toying  with 
instinct,  lifting  a  faculty  that  he  calls  '  intuition  ' 
to  a  higher  throne  than  human  reason,  and  keeping 
it  there  by  the  exercise  of  almost  superhuman  rea- 
son. He's  a  king  in  the  twopenny-halfpenny  realm 
of  metaphysics,  no  doubt;  but  I  wish  that  he  had 
served  in  the  heaven  of  art  rather  than  ruled  in  that 
stuffy  little  hell.  An  anti-rationalist  with  such  a 
brain!  Isn't  it  a  puzzle?  A  worse  enemy  even  than 
those  of  Science's  own  household  —  I  mean  the  few 
men  of  science  who  waste  their  spare  time  in  seeing 


THE  PAINTER'S  CONTRITION    135 

ghosts  and  hankering  after  the  resurrection  of  the 
dead. 

*'  Of  course,  such  men  will  weep  tears  of  joy  on 
Bergson's  neck,  because  he  asserts  explicitly  that  the 
destiny  of  consciousness  is  not  bound  up  with  the 
destiny  of  cerebral  matter,  and  declares  that  con- 
sciousness is  not  only  free,  but  freedom  itself !  That 's 
metaphysics  again,  and  no  living  man  knows  what 
it  means,  just  because  it  means  nothing;  but  as  the 
destiny  of  cerebral  matter  is  dust,  then  the  destiny 
of  individual  consciousness  is  to  go  out,  as  the  flame 
of  the  candle  when  the  oil  is  spent.  The  oil  is  the 
life,  the  wick  is  the  cerebral  matter  that  exploits  it, 
the  flame  is  the  consciousness.  That's  rational,  be- 
cause all  will  admit  that  by  its  light  we  can  remem- 
ber the  candle,  and  by  their  works  you  shall 
remember  men ;  but  when  the  workman  dies  —  he 
dies  indeed,  and  Nature  is  perhaps  clearer  on  that 
subject  than  any  other. 

*'  Of  course,  women  adore  Bergson,  and  they  are 
right  to  do  so,  for  nobody  will  deny  that  they  have 
more  intuition  than  reason,  and  he  rates  it  higher. 
Intuition  is  mind  itself  —  so  he  says;  therefore  it 
follows  that  you  have  the  mind,  we  merely  the  in- 
tellect. And  you  can  bend  to  us;  but  we  cannot 
rise  to  you.  Metaphysics,  Miss  Loveday  Merton,  is 
a  set  of  showy  and  very  efficient  manacles  for  the 
thing  we  call  life.  Thrust  life  into  them,  and  it 
cannot  move  hand  or  foot  in  any  direction  whatever. 
It  cannot  walk,  run,  or  dance.  It  atrophies;  it 
petrifies.  The  hungry,  energetic,  creative  soul  turns 
from  metaphysics  in  horror;  and  of  metaphysicians 
themselves,  there  is  not  one  who  ever  abided  by  his 


136  THE  JOY  OF  YOUTH 

convictions,  or  mistook  his  stone  for  bread,  when  it 
came  to  the  practical  business  of  being  alive. 

"  A  Bergson  can  no  more  live  on,  or  by,  his 
philosophy  than  a  Bradley;  but  there  is  this  dif- 
ference between  them:  Bergson  claims  to  offer  us 
a  course  of  sustaining  diet ;  Bradley,  more  subtle  and 
much  more  far-seeing,  promises  nothing.  Moreover, 
he  gives  physics  a  wide  berth,  and  plays  the  game 
with  the  proper  tools.  Bergson  is  shipwrecked  in  an 
attempt  to  make  an  impossible  voyage. 

''  I  shall  be  tremendously  interested  to  hear  if 
Bergson  strengthens  Sir  Ealegh's  Christianity  and 
appeals  to  him  as  a  sure  rock  and  tower  of  defence. 
How  people  surprise  us.  He  was  shocked  to  find  me 
an  out-and-out  bounder;  and  I  am  surprised  beyond 
measure  to  hear  that  he  is  a  metaphysician! 

**  Tell  him  that  I  am  much  cast  down  about  the 
crocuses  (I  suppose  you  botanists  call  them  '  croci  ' 
—  more  shame  to  you  if  you  do). 

"  I   did  like   getting  your  letter,  and  hope  that 
you'll  have  time,  between  debauches  of  Crowe  and 
Cavacaselle,  to  write  to  me  again  presently. 
"  Most  truly  yours, 

"  Bertram  Dangerfield. 

**  P.S. —  But  remember,  as  Rodin  says  somewhere, 
to  love  the  masters  and  not  label  them.  Go  to  them 
for  joy  and  inspiration,  and  don't  repay  their  gifts 
by  treating  them  like  bottles  in  a  chemist's  shop." 


CHAPTER  XIV 

DEPARTURE 

So  large  was  the  company  assembled  at  Chudleigh 
Station  to  see  Loveday  Merton  start  upon  her  travels, 
that  another  passenger  found  himself  quite  over- 
looked ;  but  while  she  stood  in  a  crowd,  and  her  maid 
and  her  uncle's  man  bustled  with  the  luggage,  there 
entered  the  train  elsewhere  Mr.  Hastings  Forbes  and 
his  kit-bag.  He  travelled  in  a  smoking-carriage,  and 
concealed  himself  as  quickly  as  possible  behind  the 
Morning  Post;  for  he  did  not  wish  to  be  seen  or  ques- 
tioned at  this  moment.  At  the  station  were  Sir 
Ralegh  Vane,  Admiral  Champernowne,  Nina  Sped- 
ding  and  her  brother  Patrick,  Walter  Ross,  the 
bailiff  of  Vanestowe,  and  Adam  Fry,  the  gardener, 
with  a  bouquet  of  hothouse  flowers.  Loveday,  im- 
mensely surprised  and  gratified  at  such  a  farewell, 
became  quite  emotional. 

"  Good  gracious!  "  she  said,  *'  it's  like  a  princess, 
or  somebody,  starting  on  a  journey.  It's  lovely  of 
you,  Patrick,  and  you,  Nina!  And  Uncle  Felix 
would  get  up,  though  he  hates  getting  up  as  much 
as  you,  Pat." 

**  Forbes  is  in  the  train,"  said  young  Spedding, 
who  had  marked  the  secretary  of  the  golf  club. 
"  Early  rising  isn't  in  his  line  either.  Perhaps  he's 
going  to  find  something  to  do.  Shall  I  scare  him 
up?  " 


138  THE  JOY  OF  YOUTH 

"  No,"  said  Loveday.  "  I've  got  Marguerite. 
She's  going  to  travel  with  me." 

Marguerite  Hetich  was  a  Swiss,  and  more  than  a 
servant  to  Loveday,  She  had  worked  as  a  sewing- 
maid  in  the  school  at  Paris  where  Miss  Merton's 
education  was  supposed  to  be  completed;  and  when 
she  returned  home,  Loveday  brought  the  girl  with 
her. 

"  Write  about  the  rhododendron,  Fry,  and  tell 
Mrs.  Stacey  to  let  me  know  all  about  her  baby  when 
it  arrives,"  said  the  traveller.  Then  she  shook  hands 
with  them,  kissed  her  uncle,  Nina  Spedding,  and  her 
betrothed,  and  waved  her  handkerchief  to  them  as 
she  departed. 

At  Newton,  Marguerite  joined  her  mistress,  and 
two  hours  later  they  met  Hastings  Forbes  in  the 
luncheon-ear. 

He  was  agreeable,  but  evasive,  and,  as  he  told 
Loveday  nothing  of  his  plans,  she  did  not  mention 
hers. 

But  a  time  was  coming  when  the  man's  enterprise 
could  no  longer  be  concealed,  and,  to  the  amaze- 
ment of  Miss  Merton,  when  she  arrived  at  Victoria 
with  the  Neill-Savages  to  catch  the  boat-train  on  the 
following  morning,  there,  once  more,  was  Mr.  Forbes 
pursuing  his  journey. 

She  saw  him,  but  not  until  a  later  hour  of  the  day 
did  he  see  her. 

Stella  and  Annette  were  travellers  of  experience, 
and  hesitated  not  to  make  their  friend  and  her  maid 
useful  in  every  possible  manner. 

"  The  crossing  is  foretold  as  *  medium,'  "  said 
Miss    Neill-Savage,    "  and    that    means    discomfort. 


DEPARTURE  139 

We  will  have  a  cabin,  I  think.  Annette  is  a  good 
sailor;  I  am  uncertain." 

They  sat  with  their  backs  to  the  engine,  and  di- 
rected the  arrangement  of  the  windows  and  disposal 
of  the  hand-luggage.  They  were  dressed  alike,  in 
tailor-made  gowns  with  violet  hats;  and  they  each 
carried  a  little  bag  of  violet  leather,  which  contained, 
amongst  other  things,  small  silver-topped  bottles  hold- 
ing egg-flip  and  brandy. 

*'  I  hope  we  shall  all  lunch  together  on  the  train; 
but  one  never  knows,"  said  Stella.  "  Is  your  maid 
a  good  sailor?  The  Swiss  rarely  are.  I  trust  she 
will  keep  well  and  useful.  It  is  a  great  bother  when 
servants  collapse  on  these  occasions,  as  they  so  often 
do.  They  lack  our  spirit  and  pluck  to  face  physical 
catastrophies. ' ' 

**  She's  a  splendid  sailor,"  declared  Loveday. 
"  She's  never  been  ill  in  her  life,  and  she's  greatly 
excited  at  the  thought  she'll  go  through  Switzerland 
to-morrow  morning," 

A  stiff  breeze  fretted  the  grey  sea  with  foam,  and 
Miss  Neill-Savage  frowned  as  the  train  ran  between 
Folkestone  and  Dover. 

"I'm  afraid  '  medium  '  was  not  the  word,"  she 
said.  "  We  must  hope  for  a  turbine  boat  and  a 
swift  crossing." 

Then  followed  the  roar  and  bustle  at  the  quay; 
the  swinging  cranes  and  hooting  steam-whistles,  the 
white  cliffs  sinking  into  the  grey,  and  the  swirl 
of  the  seas  as  the  Pas  de  Calais  set  forth  to 
churn  them.  Again  Loveday  met  Mr.  Forbes,  and 
he,  now  perceiving  that  some  sort  of  explanation  was 
demanded,  and  knowing  that  the  girl  went  in  charity 


140         THE  JOY  OF  YOUTH 

with  all  men  and  women,  confessed  his  proceedings. 

"  How  perfectly  extraordinary!  "  she  said.  "  Of 
course,  I  don't  mean  what  you  tell  me  —  that's  splen- 
did —  but  that  you  are  travelling  in  our  train  all 
the  way!  " 

He  was  gratified  at  her  reception  of  his  difficult 
news. 

' '  I  am  awfully  glad.  I  may  be  useful ;  in  fact,  I 
must  be  useful.  Command  me.  We'll  lunch  to- 
gether. It  will  be  a  better  lunch  than  yesterday. 
The  food  on  English  trains  —  well,  one  doesn't  like 
to  think  about  it.  In  fact,  I  always  take  my  own 
from  home;  but  yesterday  I  left  in  a  hurry,  and 
hadn't  time.  You'll  enjoy  your  lunch  to-day,  how- 
ever. My  only  objection  to  the  Simplon  express  is 
the  vibration.  Avoid  red  wines ;  the  white  are  quite 
possible  mixed  with  apollinaris. " 

At  Calais  he  made  himself  of  service,  and  since 
Miss  Neill-Savage,  as  she  had  feared,  proved  unequal 
to  lunching,  he  brought  to  her  presently  a  little  fruit 
and  a  French  roll. 

"  I  am  fortunate,"  he  observed,  as  he  sat  in  the 
Neill-Savage  '  supplement  '  and  watched  the  lady 
toy  with  a  bunch  of  loquats.  '*  I  am  distinctly 
lucky,  for  my  compartment  has  nobody  in  it  but  my- 
self. One's  convenience  is  enormously  increased 
when  that  happens.  You  haven't  got  to  climb  up 
that  hateful  little  ladder,  for  one  thing,  which  you 
always  must  if  doubled  up  with  an  older  man,  and 
you  have  more  room  to  undress,  and  can  take  your 
own  time  to  get  up  and  shave  when  the  train  is  at 
rest  at  a  station  and  so  on." 

"  The    dressing    is    a    difficulty,"    she    confessed. 


DEPARTURE  141 

''  Doing  one's  hair  is  the  most  complicated  busi- 
ness at  fifty  miles  an  hour." 

"  Doubtless,  doubtless,"  he  answered.  Then 
boldly  he  mentioned  his  wife. 

"  Una  always  hated  these  trains  when  we  went  to 
the  Riviera.  She  has  a  passion  for  air.  She  would 
ride  on  the  front  of  the  engine  if  she  could.  A 
draught  is  essential  to  her  comfort  in  a  railway  car- 
riage; but  it  is  quite  destructive  of  mine.  We  gen- 
erally travelled  by  different  trains  accordingly.  To 
rush  at  high  speed  through  every  sort  of  weather  in 
a  motor-car  is  her  highest  bliss  —  to  me  the  car  is 
nothing  but  a  complication  to  life  —  a  nuisance.  It 
enormously  increases  one's  circle  of  friends,  and,  of 
course,  one  cannot  live  in  the  country  without  it. 
A  necessity,  I  grant;  but  not  a  luxury,  in  my 
opinion. ' ' 

Stella,  who  knew  not  the  purpose  of  the  other's 
pilgrimage,  but  was  familiar  with  his  recent  mis- 
fortune, felt  some  surprise  to  hear  him  mention  the 
lady  and  observe  his  contentment  and  cheerful  aspect. 

"  How  he  keeps  up!  "  she  said  to  Loveday,  when 
they  sat  together  after  luncheon,  and  Mr.  Forbes 
had  withdrawn  to  smoke  a  cigar. 

Then  the  younger  explained,  and  Stella  started 
with  such  indignation  that  her  air-cushion  gave  a 
shiver. 

"  Miserable  thing!  "  she  said. 

**  Don't  quarrel  with  him  yet,  however,"  advised 
Annette.  ''  He  may  be  very  useful  between  here  and 
Florence." 

**  Quarrel  with  him?  No;  but  after  to-morrow  I 
shall  certainly  not  know  him;  and,  of  course,  you 


142         THE  JOY  OF  YOUTH 

will  not  either.  Preposterous  wretch!  It's  hard  to 
imagine  anything  quite  so  shameless!  " 

Loveday  changed  the  subject. 

'*  How  nice  it  is  not  to  see  any  hedges,"  she  said. 
**  The  hedges  make  dear  little  Devonshire  so  stuffy 
—  they  're  such  silly  things,  and  spoil  views  and  turn 
us  into  a  sort  of  irritating  patchwork.  Just  look 
out  at  this  great  rolling  country.  I  always  love  it. 
Now  I'm  going  to  sit  at  the  window  and  make  tre- 
mendous notes  for  my  first  letter  home." 


CHAPTER  XV 

loveday  to  ralegh 

"  Hotel  Athena,  Firenze. 
**  My  dear,  dear  Love, — 

"  Here  we  are  at  last,  and  I  write  where 
I  can  lift  my  eyes  to  the  great  dome  of  the  cathedral, 
seen  at  the  end  of  a  narrow  street  of  houses  and 
lifting  to  its  cross  against  the  blue  sky.  The  journey 
was  not  too  long,  for  we  came  through  miles  and 
miles  of  loveliness,  and  I  quite  sympathised  with 
Marguerite,  when  she  broke  down  at  the  morning 
glory  over  her  native  land.  But  to  me  the  real  glory 
began  after  the  Simplon  Tunnel.  Once  in  Italy,  I 
felt  the  feeling  that  I  have  only  once  felt  in  my  life 
before  —  when  you  told  me  you  loved  me  and  wanted 
to  marry  me  —  a  sort  of  holy  feeling  that  makes  you 
shake  all  over,  and  opens  windows  all  through  you 
to  let  in  a  river  of  new  light.  Italy  pulls  at  me  with 
a  thousand  beautiful  hands,  and  sings  to  me  a  new 
song.  There  was  the  great  lake  first  —  Maggiore, 
with  islands  like  little  jewels  dotted  on  it;  and  then 
Milan,  where  we  stopped  and  lunched  at  the  Hotel 
Bristol.  It  looked  so  absurd  to  see  the  hideous  word 
*  Bristol  '  out  here !  But  Stella  and  Annette  have 
stayed  there  before,  and  they  never  lose  a  chance  to 
renew  old  acquaintances  and  refresh  the  memories 
they  have  left  behind.  They  were  greeted  with 
respect,   but  no   enthusiasm,    I   thought.     Then   the 


144  THE  JOY  OF  YOUTH 

cathedral,  which  put  me  in  mind  of  Dorothy  Cham- 
pernowne's  wedding-cake  —  you  remember.  I  didn't 
know  whether  I  ought  to  like  it  or  not,  but  I  didn't. 
The  inside  is  far  more  beautiful  to  me  than  the  out- 
side —  gloomy  and  solemn,  with  most  noble  pillars, 
and  a  roof  that  you  think  is  glorious  till  you  find  it 
is  a  painted  sham.  Then  you  rebound  and  hate  it. 
I  always  hate  anything  that  pretends,  and  I  know 
you  do. 

*'  We  didn't  go  to  the  Leonardo  picture,  or  the 
Brera,  as  there  wasn't  time;  but  I  went  to  the  great 
gardens,  and  thought  and  longed  for  you,  because 
the  taxodiums  are  most  wonderful  and  huge.  They 
live  with  their  feet  in  the  water,  and  tower  up  into 
mighty  trees.  I  wash  your  taxodium  in  the  Lodge 
plantation  could  see  them:  they  might  make  it  am- 
bitious, and  tempt  it  to  grow  a  little. 

*'  Then  off  again  through  the  Lombardy  plains, 
where  they  were  saving  their  hay  in  roasting  sun- 
shine. The  wagons  were  drawn  by  pairs  of  great 
white  or  mouse-coloured  oxen  —  gentle-looking  mons- 
ters, that  would  have  made  you  frantic  because  they 
went  so  slowly.  Between  the  little  strips  of  hay  they 
grow  hemp  and  corn  and  lupins ;  and  the  grape-vines, 
all  full  of  a  glad  delicious  green  now,  seem  to  join 
their  beautiful  arms  and  dance  round  and  round  the 
mulberry  bush  —  miles  and  miles  of  them  —  at  least, 
they  look  like  mulberry  bushes  that  they  hang  upon. 
The  farms  are  scattered  over  the  land,  and  streams 
run  through  it ;  and  here  and  there  are  large  patches 
of  shallow  water,  where  they  grow  rice.  You  see 
rows  of  women  wading  along,  like  bright  aquatic 
birds,  planting  the  rice  in  the  water  as  they  go. 


LOVEDAY  TO  RALEGH       145 

"  And  then  to  Bologna  at  dusk,  and  Stella  knew 
that  I  was  fainting  with  hunger,  and  sent  Marguerite 
to  the  restaurant  with  exact  directions  for  food. 

"  *  You  will  find  chicken,  cold  meat,  fruit,  hard- 
boiled  eggs,  and  rolls,'  she  said.  '  And  they  will  put 
them  into  a  big  blue  bag  for  you,  and  give  you  paper 
napkins  to  go  with  them.  Buy  also  a  bottle  of 
Chianti.' 

"  It  all  happened  just  as  Stella  foretold,  and  we 
ate  greedily,  and  I  drank  more  wine  than  ever  I 
drank  before,  for  Stella  and  Annette  like  oranges 
better,  and  said  they  were  *  more  quenching.' 

*'  We  climbed  up  and  up  into  the  dark  Apennine, 
through  endless  tunnels,  and  then  rushed  down  the 
other  side ;  and  there,  stopping  at  a  station,  the  love- 
liest thing  of  all  happened,  for  out  of  a  wood  a 
nightingale  sang,  and  across  the  darkness  little  flashes 
of  light  trailed  and  flickered,  like  tiny  fairy  lanterns 
being  waved  to  each  other.  It  was  a  most  magical 
moment,  and  the  dear  fire-flies  seemed  to  be  signal- 
ling a  welcome  to  me.  They  lived  in  a  garden  of 
olives,  but  it  was  too  dark  for  me  to  know  that  then. 
The  next  day  I  saw  olives,  and  found  that  they 
were  easily  the  loveliest  trees  in  the  world.  They 
look  as  if  they  were  moulded  out  of  silver,  but  really 
they  are  '  greener  than  grey  and  greyer  than  green,' 
as  a  poem  about  them  says.  They  are  fearfully  diffi- 
cult to  paint,  and  Mr.  Dangerfield  tells  me  that  not 
Sargent  himself  can  touch  them;  though  Sargent, 
he  admits,  has  conquered  the  cypress  and  painted  it 
in  a  most  heavenly  manner,  with  all  the  golden  sun- 
shine caught  in  its  darkness.  And  so  we  got  to 
Firenze  —  for  Mr.  Dangerfield  simply  orders  me  to 


146         THE  JOY  OF  YOUTH 

call  this  place  '  Firenze,'  and  not  '  Florence,'  which 
word  is  based  upon  the  ancient  name  of  the  city.  He 
thinks  it  absurd  for  different  nations  to  have  dif- 
ferent names  for  the  same  countries  or  capitals. 
Take  the  Italian  name  for  London  —  Londra.  Well, 
as  he  truly  says,  the  real  name  fits  the  place  —  it 's 
just  *  London,'  but  a  charming,  musical  word  like 
'  Londra  '  no  more  belongs  to  it  than  a  hard  word 
like  '  Florence  '  belongs  to  Firenze. 

"  You'd  hate  the  noise,  and  think  the  Italians 
rather  undignified  as  a  race.  But,  somehow,  to  me 
their  lack  of  self-consciousness  is  most  delightful. 
I  feel  as  if  I  had  been  here  before,  and  nothing  sur- 
prises me  in  the  least.  As  I  write,  a  puff  of  wind 
has  just  blown  fifty  picture  postcards  into  the 
air  off  a  kiosk  in  the  piazza.  They  were  flying 
about  like  a  flock  of  little  birds;  but  the  people 
aren't  an  atom  cross.  Children  are  rtinning  about 
picking  up  the  cards,  and  everybody  stands  and 
laughs  at  the  joke.  The  men  crack  their  whips  like 
pistols  at  every  corner;  the  trams  ring  bells  cease- 
lessly; the  motors  hoot  or  play  octaves;  the  eternal 
bicycles  jangle;  and  everybody  shouts  and  makes  as 
much  noise  as  they  possibly  can,  with  or  without 
an  excuse.  But  the  noise  seems  to  become  second 
nature.  It  goes  on  night  and  day,  and  you  soon  get 
accustomed  to  it.  I  believe  I  shall  actually  like  it 
before  long. 

"  Mr.  Dangerfield,  of  course,  throws  a  flood  of 
light  on  this  new  world  to  me. 

"  For  instance,  in  answer  to  some  question  I  put 
to  him,  he  told  me  there  was  no  such  thing  as  public 
opinion  in   Italy.     You   can't   manufacture   a   hard- 


LOVEDAY  TO  RALEGH       147 

and-fast  thing  like  public  opinion  in  a  mere  fifty 
years  or  so,  and,  of  course,  United  Italy  is  only  fifty 
years  old  or  thereabout.  But  we  English,  who  come 
out  here  soaked  in  centuries  of  public  opinion,  are 
very  much  puzzled  to  find  none,  and  instantly  oft'er 
our  own  brand,  bottled  in  the  United  Kingdom,  to 
United  Italy,  and  seem  quite  astonished  to  find  the 
Latins  cannot  see  with  our  stupid  Anglo-Saxon  eyes. 
We  think  that  Italy  would  be  perfect  if  it  were  run 
on  English  lines  —  just  as  though  the  Italians  in 
London,  instead  of  doing  what  they  are  told  and 
conforming  in  every  way,  were  to  begin  putting  Lon- 
don right  and  criticising  everything  from  the  Consti- 
tution to  the  baking-powder.  They  are  wonderfully 
patient  with  the  English  and  Americans  in  Florence. 
But  only,  I  should  think,  because  it  pays  them  to  be 
so. 

"  I  am  going  to  learn  Italian,  Ralegh,  or  begin  to. 
I  feel,  somehow,  that  Italian  belongs  to  me  and  is 
waiting  to  come  into  my  head.  Mr.  Dangerfield  has 
an  Italian  friend  —  a  young  man  at  one  of  the 
libraries  —  who  is  a  genius  at  teaching.  I  really 
seem  to  have  found  myself  here,  and  if  you  were 
only  here  it  would  be  heaven.  But  you  will  have  to 
come;  and  I  believe  you'll  have  to  come  a  great  deal, 
for  it  is  perfectly  certain  that  my  life  must  never 
be  quite  drawn  away  out  of  Italy  again  —  not  alto- 
gether. 

''  I  would  a  million  times  sooner  have  a  villa  here 
than  a  flat  in  London.  In  fact,  you  know  that  was 
only  a  child's  idea.  But  a  villa  here  —  oh,  my  own 
precious  Love,  I  believe  after  you  got  over  the 
strangeness  and  began  to  see  Italians  from  the  proper 


148         THE  JOY  OF  YOUTH 

angle,  which  isn't  English  in  the  least,  that  you 
would  feel  it  was  a  great  additional  experience.  The 
colour  and  the  light,  and  the  teeming  life,  and  the 
gay,  joyous  feeling  —  it  is  all  like  nothing  else  in 
the  world.  It  seems  specially  a  country  for  those 
who  are  still  young  and  happy. 

"  But  I've  written  enough  for  one  letter.  This  is 
only  to  say  that  I've  got  here  safely,  and  am  fear- 
fully and  wonderfully  excited,  and  feel  as  if  I  were 
finger-tips  all  over  —  to  touch  and  welcome  each  new 
impression  that  is  to  come  to  me. 

"  The  concierge  knows  Marguerite's  people  at  Ter- 
ritet.  Our  train  stopped  there  for  a  moment  com- 
ing out  in  the  early  morning,  and  she  would  alight, 
so  that  her  feet  might  touch  the  earth.  Wasn't  it 
nice  of  her?  I  shall  give  her  a  holiday  going  home, 
and  let  her  stop  in  Switzerland  for  a  week  or  two. 

''I'm  going  to  work  like  a  slave  here  —  at  pictures 
and  Italian.  Mr.  Dangerfield  is  most  kind,  and  has 
put  his  automobile  at  our  service  —  an  act  that  has 
entirely  won  Stella  and  Annette  to  him.  But  he 
is  a  tremendous  worker  himself,  I  find,  and  hates 
loafing  and  idleness.  We  are  to  see  his  studio  pres- 
ently. 

"  You  will  rejoice  to  hear  that  Mr.  Forbes  has 
found  it  possible  to  forgive  his  wife,  who  is  here  in 
a  lovely  villa  at  Fiesole.  It  seems  that  it  was  all 
a  sort  of  mad  hallucination,  and  the  dentist  has  gone 
back  to  his  patients  —  though  whether  they  will  all 
go  back  to  him  is  doubtful,  I  suppose.  But  I  ex- 
pect they  will,  because  he's  such  a  genius.  People^ 
forgive  genius  everything.  The  whole  affair  seems 
quite  different  out  here  —  not  so  terribly  important. 


LOVEDAY  TO  RALEGH        149 

At  any  rate,  I  always  rather  liked  her,  and  I'm 
going  to  see  them  presently.  Mr.  Forbes  travelled 
by  our  train,  in  response  to  an  urgent  telegram  from 
her;  and  he  was  exceedingly  kind  and  useful  on  sev- 
eral occasions  coming  out. 

"  My  heart  sinks  when  I  look  through  the  list  of 
introductions  that  I've  brought.  They  read  so 
stuffily.  Probably  I  shall  not  use  half  of  them,  for 
I'm  really  here  to  work,  and  six  weeks  or  two  months 
is  nothing. 

"  You  shall  have  another  letter  next  Sunday  from 
your  devoted 

"  Loved  AY. 

"  P.S. —  Coming  through  France,  where  the  pop- 
lars were  all  in  their  spring  clothes,  all  wearing  the 
latest  thing  in  hobble  skirts,  I  decided  that  hedges 
are  a  mistake.  You  must  send  out  orders  to  have 
all  yours  pulled  down! 

"  P.S.  2. —  I  hope  you  are  having  '  tight  lines  ' 
and  killing  a  lot  of  trout." 


CHAPTER  XVI 

FIRENZE  —  SUNSET 

The  sun  was  sinking  where  marble  mountains  hol- 
lowed to  receive  it,  and  earthward  flowed  the  light, 
mingling  afar  oflE  with  delicate  hazes  that  hid  the 
horizon.  Faint,  colourless  forms  stole  there  —  the 
crowns  of  forests  and  the  heave  of  hills ;  but  beneath 
them,  under  the  sunset,  breaking  as  it  seemed  from' 
a  matrix  of  western  gold  and  formfed  from  the  sub- 
stance of  that  splendour,  there  trembled  out  a  city. 

Like  a  green  snake  a  river  ran  through  the  midst 
of  her,  and  above  her  walls  of  amber  and  old  ivory 
the  rusty  warmth  of  a  myriad  roof -trees  shone.  Her 
domes  were  overlaid  with  light  and  her  pinnacles 
fretted  with  flame;  yet  all  was  kneaded  with  the 
gracious  breath  of  the  hour,  so  that  no  single  spark 
of  fire  or  plane  of  light  flashed  out  to  break  the 
universal  glow;  for  evening  misted  over  the  city  and 
washed  her  with  cooling  airs,  that  spread  a  tangible 
medium  between  light  and  shadow  and  melted  them 
into  harmonious  mosaic.  She  was  a  jewel  of  many 
facets.  Green  things  flowed  in  upon  her  to  right  and 
left,  mingling  their  verdant  bosses  and  dark  spires 
with  her  architecture,  billowing  above  the  russet 
roofs  and  carrying  spring  into  her  heart.  The  chest- 
nut brought  flowers  to  her;  the  olive  wound  like  a 
veil  of  smoke  through  the  fringe  of  her  garment;  the 


FIRENZE— SUNSET  151 

cypress  rising  beside  the  dim  rainbows  of  roof  and 
gateway,  marked  her  boundaries  and  precincts, 
mourned  above  the  places  of  her  dead. 

Many  a  dome  and  tower,  and  one  campanile,  that 
rose  like  a  silver  ghost  among  ponderable  things, 
broke  the  deep  breast  of  her,  and  fortune  so  ordered 
the  disposal  of  these  lofty  works  that  each  lance  of 
stone,  each  turret,  rotunda,  bell-chamber,  sprang 
aloft  in  just  relation  to  the  rest  —  disposed  with 
happy  fitness  to  meet  the  thirst  of  the  eye,  even  as 
the  bridges  symmetrically  spanned  the  river,  where 
it  wound  over  the  heart  of  the  city.  There  the  green 
waters  flushed  to  rose,  then  faded  and  thinned  and 
twinkled  away  under  the  sunset,  to  flash  forth  again 
and  again,  like  a  string  of  golden  beads. 

Cry  of  birds  was  in  the  air,  where  the  swifts 
circled  and  loved  high  overhead;  and  from  beneath, 
great  and  little  bells  throbbed  intermittently,  now 
near,  now  far. 

"  Firenze!  "  said  Dangerfield.  '*  Look  at  it  and 
love  it!  You  don't  want  me  yet.  I'll  come  back  in 
half  an  hour." 

He  strolled  off,  and  left  Loveday  on  the  balcony 
of  the  Piazza  Michelangelo  under  San  Miniato.  He 
had  brought  her  up  in  his  automobile  and  not  let 
her  look  until  now.  She  stood  with  her  white  dress 
fluttering,  her  hands  held  tight  on  the  parapet,  her 
lips  just  parted,  her  bosom  lifting,  and  the  light  in 
her  eyes.  Then,  not  gradually,  but  with  a  sudden, 
triumphant  gest,  the  stupendous  vision  sank  into  her 
heart.  She  gasped;  her  eyes  grew  dim  before  the 
wonder  of  it;  tears  broke  the  reflection  and  turned 
all  into  a  whirling  conflagration   of  colour.     They 


152         THE  JOY  OF  YOUTH 

fell,  and  the  city  resumed  its  steadfast  splendours. 
For  a  time  Loveday  looked  almost  helplessly  upon 
it;  then  her  mind,  having  paid  the  first  natural 
tribute,  swiftly  hungered  after  knowledge.  Interest 
began  to  share  her  spirit  with  enthusiasm.  She  felt 
unutterably  happy,  and  desired  to  express  her  joy 
to  some  fellow  creature.  She  looked  round  for  the 
artist,  and  he  saw  her  do  so,  where  he  strolled  two 
hundred  yards  away.     Then  he  returned  to  her. 

"  It  was  nice  of  you  to  go  away,"  she  said.  "  I 
suppose  you  know  how  this  makes  anybody  feel  when 
they  see  it  for  the  first  time?  " 

"  What  d'you  think  about  it?  " 

*'  I  don't  know.  I've  not  thought  yet;  you  can 
only  feel  first.  It's  like  a  great  cup  to  me,  a  cup 
built  up  of  wonderful  rare  stones,  and  gold  and  sil- 
ver, and  coral  and  every  precious  gem ;  and  the  sun- 
set is  poured  into  it,  like  golden  wine,  to  make  the 
bright,  beautiful  thing  still  more  bright  and  beau- 
tiful." 

He  nodded. 

"  I  like  to  pull  it  down  sometimes,  and  then  turn 
back  the  centuries  as  you  turn  the  pages  of  a  book. 
I  like  to  go  back  and  back  and  back  to  the  begin- 
ning, when  the  valley  was  a  great  lake  and  man 
hadn't  arrived.  One  mighty  gleam  of  far-reaching 
waters  under  the  Apennine;  but  that's  been  drained 
away  for  millions  of  years,  I  suppose.  Then  there 
rose  forests,  and  hunger  '  drove  wolven  from  the 
brake,'  and  deer  fled  before  them.  Wild  beasts 
haunted  the  woods,  and  great  fish  filled  the  river. 
The  forefathers  of  Pirenze  arrived  at  this  time  — 
hunters  and  fishers  who  roamed  wild  Tuscany,  from 


FIRENZE— SUNSET  153 

Latium  below  to  Lombardy  above.  Thousands  of 
years  sped,  and  turned  the  hunters  into  merchants, 
and  destroyed  the  forests,  and  lifted  a  busy  city  of 
trade  beside  Arno,  where  the  river  and  the  great 
roads  came  together  and  made  a  centre  of  might  and 
power.  And  more  years  passed,  and  Florentia  grew 
into  a  merchant  queen;  but  for  you  and  me  it  was 
the  re-birth  that  put  the  diadem  on  her  forehead." 

*'  She's  unspeakably  beautiful.  And  she  seems  so 
kind  and  welcoming.     But  shall  I  ever  know  her?  " 

"  No,"  he  said.  ''  You'll  certainly  never  know 
her.  No  Anglo-Saxon,  or  Teuton,  or  Celt  can  ever 
know  her.  There  are  infinite  subtleties  that  belong 
to  her  —  age-born  things  that  run  through  her  very 
blood.  We  can't  be  her  children,  and  yet  we  can  be 
her  foster-children  —  well  content  and  happy  to  be 
numbered  with  her  people.  Her  story  one  can  easily 
learn,  because  she's  not  like  Venice  or  Rome,  that 
make  you  despair  by  the  length  and  complexities  of 
their  histories.  One  can  master  her  to  that  extent 
—  just  the  history  of  her  facts;  but  underneath 
them  —  like  a  subterranean  river  —  moves  the  mys- 
tery of  her  life  —  the  Tuscan  spirit,  the  thing  that 
made  her  so  unique  and  wonderful.  It  springs  of 
Dionysus,  and  was  born  out  of  the  woods  and  moun- 
tains. It  is  unmatched  in  Italy,  and  pagan  in  es- 
sence; it  held  its  way  through  the  centuries,  and 
Christianity's  self  couldn't  smother  it.  Be  thankful 
for  that!  " 

*'  Talk  about  the  things  that  I  can  see  here  under- 
neath us,"  she  said.  ''  It's  so  beautiful  to  feel  that 
every  one  of  them  stands  for  some  chapter  in  the 
story. ' ' 


154         THE  JOY  OF  YOUTH 

"  They  do.  When  I  come  up  here,  I  always  seem 
to  see  the  ghosts  of  the  big  fellows  brooding  over 
the  place,  like  bright  exhalations.  At  dawn  or  even- 
ing I  feel  them  in  the  shining  clouds;  by  night  the 
moonlight  shows  them  to  me.  They  are  ever  so 
grand  and  splendid,  yet  I  know  they  have  the  spirit 
of  youth  in  them  still  —  they  are  so  joyous,  so  busy 
about  the  stupendous  things  that  they  are  making, 
so  ignorant  of  the  air  of  the  re-birth  that  they  breathe 
and  that  is  purifying  the  very  blood  in  their  veins. 
They  look  like  happy  children  through  the  mists  of 
time;  and  I  like  to  think  of  them  so  when  I'm  up 
here,  and  dwell  on  their  joys  and  triumphs  rather 
than  their  sorrows  and  tragedies  and  disappoint- 
ments. But  they  were  artists  before  everything;  so 
they  suffered  —  the  least  as  well  as  the  greatest  —  suf- 
fered as  only  artists  can  suffer." 

*'  And  rejoiced  as  only  artists  can  rejoice,"  she  said. 

They  talked  on  till  the  dusk  was  down,  and  he  an- 
swered the  questions  she  rained  on  him. 

It  was  understood  that  he  M'ould  give  her  a  general 
education  on  the  pictures — "just  to  peg  out  the 
ground  of  her  mind,"  as  he  said. 

"  But  no  doubt  you'll  begin  as  keen  as  mustard, 
and  then  gradually  cool  off  —  like  everybody  else," 
he  added. 

She  was  indignant  at  this,  and  would  not  hear 
of  it. 

"  If  you  only  knew  how  I'm  longing  to  begin  and 
how  hard  I  worked  at  them  before  I  came  out,  you 
wouldn't  say  that,"  she  declared. 

Loveday  felt  supremely  happy,  and  when  she  was 
happy  she  generally  became  confidential. 


FIRENZE— SUNSET  155 

She  talked  to  the  mau  as  they  drove  swiftly  back 
to  her  hotel. 

"I'm  glad  I'm  late  for  dinner,"  she  said.  "  It 
will  show  Stella  that  I  am  going  to  be  absolutely  in- 
dependent here.  This  is  my  home.  This  is  my  air 
and  food  —  everythinnr  proper  to  my  nature!  You'll 
say  it's  too  soon  to  talk  like  that;  but  I  feel  it  through 
and  through  me;  and,  still  stranger,  I  knew  I  should 
feel  it  before  I  came.  Now  I  understand  thousands 
of  mysteries  that  I  didn't  understand  in  England 
—  why  I  puzzled  people,  for  instance,  and  why  the 
things  I  said  and  the  things  I  laughed  at  often  horri- 
fied Lady  Vane  and  worried  Ralegh.  But  I  shan't 
worry  and  horrify  people  here.  I  belong  here,  just 
as  you  belong  here.  I  feel  as  if  the  life  wasn't  new 
to  me,  as  if  even  the  language  wasn't  absolutely  new. 
It's  like  coming  home." 

He  listened  to  this  outburst  and  cautioned  her. 

*'  Don't  let  Italy  run  away  with  you.  And  don't 
fall  in  love  wdth  her  if  you  can  possibly  help  doing 
so.  Remember  —  oh,  all  sorts  of  things  —  Vanestowe, 
and  duty,  and  so  on." 

"  You  won't  damp  me,"  she  said.  "  You  won't 
alter  me.     It's  down  deep,  deep  in  me!  " 

"  I  know  just  how  you  feel  —  I  went  through  it 
all.  But  that  was  different.  I  was  free  —  you're 
not.  You  can't  be  a  foster-child  of  Italy,  so  it's  too 
late  to  wish  it." 

She  laughed. 

"  I  am  already  —  whether  I  wish  it  or  not." 

"  Then  what  about  Sir  Ralegh  and  the  future?  " 

"  I  see  that  quite  clearly,"  she  answered.  "  We 
women  can't  escape  our  fate;  nor  can  our  future  hus 


156         THE  JOY  OF  YOUTH 

bands.  Instead  of  a  flat  in  London,  which  was  a 
sort  of  dream  of  my  youth,  I  must  have  a  villa  at 
Firenze.     And  there  you  are!  " 

' '  And  his  opinion  ?  ' ' 

**  Could  any  living  creature  see  what  we  saw  to- 
night and  not  want  to  spend  at  least  half  of  his  life 
in  reach  of  it?  " 

"  But  does  it  not  strike  you  that  the  hills  of  Hal- 
don  on  a  nice,  rainy,  hunting  morning  would  be  far 
more  beautiful  to  Sir  Ralegh  than  a  bird's-eye  view 
of  Paradise  itself,  let  alone  this  place?  " 

**  At  present,  yes;  but  surely  he  can  learn?  We 
can  all  learn.  You  are  going  to  educate  me;  then 
I'm  going  home  to  educate  him.  What  could  be 
simpler?  " 


CHAPTER  XVII 

FORGIVEN 

"  He  has  forgiven  me,"  said  Una  Forbes. 

Loveday  had  called  upon  her  without  telling  any- 
body, and,  as  happens  in  these  cases,  found  herself 
received  with  open  arms.  Mrs.  Forbes  was  a  large, 
flaxen-haired,  handsome  woman,  with  telling  eyes, 
and  a  big  mouth  whose  lips  were  never  still.  She 
spoke  volubty,  but  had  a  light  touch  in  conversation. 
One  word  set  listeners  gasping,  yet  before  they  had 
time  to  ponder  the  utterance,  the  speaker  was  off 
again.  The  thin  ice  on  which  she  chose  to  perform 
never  cracked. 

"  Thank  God,  you  have  the  artist's  soul,  Loveday, 
and  understand  something  of  the  joy  of  life !  Here 
in  Italy  one  knows  what  it  means;  and  yet  there  is 
another  side.  If  one  can  be  happy,  one  can  suffer 
dreadfully  too.  Hastings  is  a  man  in  a  thousand. 
You  wouldn't  think  him  a  great  student  of  character, 
but  he  is.  And  such  philosophy !  I  've  never  been  a 
real  Christian,  you  know;  but  henceforth  I  shall  be 
—  a  strenuous,  living  follower!  Oh,  Loveday,  the 
large  charity  of  that  man!  He  comprehended!  He 
wept  when  he  came  back  to  me.  Don't  let  it  go 
further,  but  you  always  charm  confidences.  He  felt 
it  fearfully.  When  he  entered  this  room  I  saw  him 
aged.     But  my  tears  will  soon  wipe  out  the  furrows 


158  THE  JOY  OF  YOUTH 

on  his  face.  People  don't  talk  about  these  things, 
simply  because  they  have  not  the  courage.  But  the 
Latin  mind  is  different.  Here  there  is  a  far  deeper 
understanding  of  human  nature.  You  will  soon 
realise  that.  Men  will  follow  you  in  the  streets  if 
you  walk  about  alone.  It  is  the  Italian  instinct  for 
beauty.  Labourers  sing  grand  opera  at  their  work. 
You  may  pass  a  man  mending  the  drains  and  warbling 
*  La  Traviata  '  correctly  at  any  moment.  Would  it 
pain  you  if  I  mention  Mr.  Wicks,  or  do  you  feel  that 
you  would  rather  I  didn't?  " 

"  I  know  just  what  you  mean  about  Italy  being 
different,"  said  Loveday.  "  It's  in  the  air.  At  home 
it  would  be  sure  to  pain  me  fearfully  if  you  had  men- 
tioned Mr.  Wicks.     Here  I  shan  't  mind  in  the  least. ' ' 

"  That  sounds  flippant,  but  still  —  how  true  to 
nature  and  Italy !  It 's  in  the  air,  as  you  say  so  de- 
lightfully —  everything  is  larger  and  more  genial,  and 
gentle  and  beautiful.  So  we  get  larger  and  more 
genial,  and  even  more  beautiful  ourselves.  I  think 
beautifully  here.  When  Hastings  put  his  arm  round 
my  shoulder  and  said,  '  I  forgive  you,  Una !  '  I  felt 
like  a  poem  by  Carducci.  I  w^asn't  surprised;  but 
I  glowed,  because  I  knew  that  this  blessed  country 
was  working  its  magic  on  him  too.  I  have  taken  this 
villa  for  six  months.  There  are  relics  of  the  Medici 
here,  and  other  interesting  associations.  They  are 
comforting,  but  there  has  been  agony  for  me  in  this 
place  —  great  agony.  Arthur  Wicks  was  a  man  — 
how  shall  I  say  it?  In  a  word,  he  was  in  love  with 
love  —  not  with  me.  So,  at  least,  it  struck  me, 
though  he  would  never  allow  it.  He  suffered  too. 
He  is  a  dreamer  and  an  inarticulate  poet.     More- 


FORGIVEN  159 

over,  he  has  uncertain  health  —  a  fact  he  concealed 
from  me.  In  the  first  joy  and  wonder  of  finding 
that  I  loved  him,  his  health  improved.  He  explained 
his  psychology  to  me  —  the  earliest  rapture  of  his 
passions.  It  was  very  interesting  and  beautiful,  and, 
of  course,  sacred.  I  need  hardly  ask  you  to  regard 
it  as  sacred,  Loved  ay.  Iq  a  word,  my  love  filled  him 
with  the  enthusiasm  of  humanity,  as  it  has  been 
beautifully  called  by  somebody.  Such  was  his  joy 
at  finding  the  world  so  much  more  interesting  than 
his  profession  had  led  him  to  expect,  that  he  dis- 
covered a  perfect  well  of  philanthropy  hidden  in  his 
own  nature,  and  did  many  kind  and  generous  things, 
and  doubtless  astonished  his  friends  by  such  a  sud- 
den and  beautiful  development  of  character.  Then 
he  felt  the  world  well  lost  for  me,  and  we  threw  in 
our  lots  together  and  came  here,  and  lived  for  each 
other  for  several  months.     I'm  not  boring  you?  " 

"  It's  fearfully  interesting,"  said  Loveday.  **  All 
real  life  is,  Una." 

* '  He  got  a  cold  on  his  chest.  Real  life  again !  It 
seems  stupid  to  put  it  in  that  bald  way;  but  a  cold 
on  the  chest  is  a  cold  on  the  chest ;  and  I  found  that 
he  was  not  very  brave  physically.  In  fact,  he  thought 
that  he  was  going  to  die,  and  he  dwelt  a  good  deal 
on  the  subject  of  his  married  sister  at  Paignton. 
Fancy  talking  about  Paignton  at  Florence!  It 
seems  a  desecration,  doesn't  it?  *  Arthur,'  I  said  to 
him,  as  he  tossed  and  coughed  and  kept  feeling  his 
pulse,  'Arthur,  you're  home-sick!'  Though  my 
voice  must  have  rung  with  reproach,  he  didn't  con- 
tradict me.  He  is  a  man  of  exquisite  sensibilities 
when  in  good  health ;  but  illness  revealed  another  side 


160  THE  JOY  OF  YOUTH 

to  his  nature.  It's  no  use  denying  that  he  was 
snappy  with  me.  Artists  are  bad  patients,  as  a  rule ; 
their  nerves  and  emotions  are  always  so  far  finer 
than  common  men 's.  He  recovered,  of  course  —  I 
nursed  him  devotedly,  though  I  hate  and  loathe  sick 
nursing.  I  hate  it  almost  as  much  as  I  hate  the 
thought  of  death.  In  fact,  it's  all  in  the  same  line 
of  thinking,  because  illness  is  really  the  assault  of  the 
King  of  Terrors,  even  to  the  extent  of  a  cold  on  tho 
chest.  And  I  am  sensitive,  too,  and  fearfully  capable 
of  feeling.  A  pin-prick  to  me  is  worse  than  a  tooth 
out  to  some  people.  And,  talking  of  teeth,  one  comes 
to  the  next  phase.  Arthur,  as  I  think  I  told  you,  is 
an  artist.  He  called  his  profession  a  craft,  but  he 
had  really  elevated  it  to  a  fine  art.  He  deals  in  ivory 
and  gold  and  precious  workmanship.  He  has  made 
many  a  woman's  mouth  beautiful  as  Solomon's 
temple  —  on  a  small  scale,  of  course.  And  when  he 
got  better,  the  artist  in  him  began  to  cry  out  — 
dumbly  at  first,  then  audibly.  He  scraped  acquaint- 
ance with  the  English  dentist  here,  and,  rather  to 
my  surprise,  invited  him  to  dinner.  And  they  talked 
shop !  Dentists'  shop  !  That  opened  my  eyes,  but  I 
won't  pretend  to  say  I  was  sorry,  because,  while  still 
devoted  to  the  man,  I  felt  very  sure  that  love  never 
could  be  his  whole  existence,  as  it  is  mine.  I  found 
The  Dental  Journal,  or  some  such  thing,  began  to  come 
regularly  by  post  from  England;  and  by  a  thousand 
other  little  indications  I  saw  his  ruling  passion  rise 
again  and  tower  steadfast  above  the  roseate  clouds 
of  love  —  so  to  speak.  Dentistry,  in  fact,  was  his 
morning  star,  not  I.     He  put  his  art  first. ' ' 

**  They   all   put   something  first,"   said   Loveday. 


FORGIVEN  161 

"If  it  isn't  art,  it's  games,  or  sport,  or  politics,  or 
publicity.  We  only  fit  into  niches;  we're  never  the 
temple. ' ' 

"  That  doesn't  hold  always,  Hastings  —  oh,  my 
God,  the  golden  heart  of  that  man !  He  has  lived  in 
widowhood.  He  has  known  me  all  these  months  bet- 
ter than  I  knew  myself.  He  has  felt  that  it  was 
merely  a  midsummer  madness;  for  while  a  man  of 
great  continence  and  coldness  in  his  own  nature,  yet 
he  has  the  imagination  to  understand  that  I  am 
kneaded  with  fire.  Yes,  he,  too,  though  none  guesses 
it,  is  an  artist  in  his  way.  A  most  beautiful  life, 
though  it  appears  lethargic  to  the  outer  world. 
There  is  more  —  far  more  in  him  than  meets  the  eye. 
He  has  made  only  one  stipulation:  that  we  don't  go 
back  to  Chudleigh.  Needless  to  say,  I  am  entirely 
of  his  opinion.  I  marvel  sometimes  how  I  could  en- 
dure the  place.  Here  one  feels  wings  springing  from 
one's  shoulders  —  one  is  buoyant  —  and  so  forgiving 
to  everybody.  It's  the  sun.  Have  you  ever  thought 
of  that?  You  can't  forgive  people  if  you've  got  cold 
feet;  but  when  you're  glowing  through  and  through, 
then  you  realise  what  human  nature  really  is  —  how 
forgivable  and  pathetic.  I  ought  not  to  say  so,  but 
the  poor  here  love  me  already.  I  have  the  imagina- 
tion to  see  the  difference  between  my  state  and  theirs. 
A  lira,  as  you  know,  is  tenpence.  Well,  for  ten- 
pence  you  can  bring  a  flash  of  pure  joy  into  the  life 
of  about  nine  people  out  of  every  dozen  who  pass  you 
in  Italy!  Is  not  that  a  great  thought?  But  Arthur 
—  I  am  forgetting  him.  Not  that  I  shall  ever  for- 
get him  really,  though  already  he  figures  in  my  mind 
as  a  bright  but  unsubstantial  vision.    It  is  perfectly 


162         THE  JOY  OF  YOUTH 

extraordinary  the  tricks  the  mind  plays  us,  Loveday. 
What  do  you  suppose  is  the  most  vivid  impression 
that  he  has  left  upon  me?  His  cough-mixture.  It 
was  peculiarly  horrid,  and  I  can  still  see  myself  wak- 
ing punctually  —  I  can  always  wake  or  sleep  at  a  mo- 
ment's  notice;  it  is  a  gift  —  waking  punctually  and 
pouring  it  out  every  three  hours,  and  making  him 
drink  it.  I  can  still  smell  the  abominable  stuff.  It 
was  characteristic  of  the  artist  temperament  —  so  near 
akin  to  the  child 's  —  that  he  always  ate  a  grape  aft- 
erwards—  to  take  away  the  nasty  taste.  The  dim 
night-light,  the  rustling  olive  logs  on  the  tire,  the 
smell  of  the  medicine,  and  Arthur's  unshaved  chin 
and  miserable  eyes  —  it  is  a  picture  I  shall  never 
forget." 

"  And  he's  gone  back  to  Exeter?  "  said  Loveday. 

**  He  has  gone  back.  I  made  him  go  back.  To- 
wards the  end  he  weakened  and  talked  about  setting 
up  here;  but  I  would  not  allow  that.  Our  love  was 
dead.  It  had  burned  itself  out,  as  far  as  I  was  con- 
cerned, and  he  was  equally  conscious  that  all  was 
over,  only  far  too  chivalrous  to  say  so.  But  I  made 
him  go  home  and  face  the  music.  I  heard  from  him 
only  three  days  ago.  He  wrote  coldly,  and  seemed 
to  think  his  life  was  clouded.  His  sister  at  Paignton 
has  evidently  said  some  strong  and  unkind  things 
about  me.  A  sister  at  Paignton  would.  No  doubt 
there  are  a  mean  sort  of  patients  who  won't  return 
to  him.  But  not  the  nice  ones.  They'll  flock  back, 
and  be  thankful  to  do  so.  But  I  run  on  so  fast.  It 
is  because  I  am  so  happy  —  no  doubt  happier  than 
I  deserve  to  be.  It  is  more  blessed  to  give  than  to 
receive,  and  it's  more  blessed  to  forgive  than  be  for- 


FORGIVEX  163 

given.  I  think  Hastings  feels  that.  He  is  recovering 
his  self-respect.  He  is  a  good  listener  and  lets  me 
talk.  I  think  he  feels  that  he  has  really  done  the  big 
thing.  And,  in  a  sort  of  way,  he  has  been  rewarded. 
It's  only  a  worldly  accident,  but  it  has  increased  our 
power  of  well-doing.  My  old  Uncle  Jackson  died  a 
month  ago  —  my  father's  brother.  He  was  always 
ridiculously  fond  of  me  —  I  amused  him  —  and  he 
left  me  fifty  thousand  pounds !  ' ' 

"  You've  given  it  to  your  husband!  "  cried  Love- 
day. 

* '  How  clever  of  you  to  think  that !  But  —  no. 
My  Hastings  wouldn  't  know  what  on  earth  to  do  with 
it.  His  simple  tastes  and  needs  — ■  ah,  no  —  it  would 
bother  him  to  death.  He  knows  that  everything  I 
have  is  his  —  everything,  and  a  wife 's  love  and  wor- 
ship as  well;  but  capital  would  only  inconvenience 
him.  Besides  —  you  never  know.  Will  you  come  to 
dinner  to-night  ?  —  to-morrow,  then  ?  I  see  the  Neill- 
Savages  are  at  the  '  Athena.'  Of  course,  you  are 
stopping  with  them.  Have  they  said  anything  about 
me?  Hastings  tells  me  that  you  all  came  out  to- 
gether. ' ' 

"  No,  they  haven't  said  anything  worth  repeating. 
They  were  very  grateful  to  Mr.  Forbes  on  the 
journey." 

* '  Ah !  His  heart  was  full.  He  was  glad  to  let 
his  happiness  take  shape.  But  now  yourself  —  your 
dear,  lovely  self!  You'll  glory  in  Italy  and  art,  and 
all  the  rest  of  it.  We  shall  meet  at  parties.  Say 
nothing  about  my  affairs.  Until  now  I  have  lived  a 
very  secluded  life,  and  there  was  a  vague  impres- 
sion, outside  the  villa,  among  the  few  who  called,  that 


164  THE  JOY  OF  YOUTH 

Mr.  Wicks  was  an  invalid  brother.  I  did  not  con- 
tradict the  rumour,  fortunately,  and  as  soon  as  we 
found  that  we  must  part,  I  let  it  flash  out  that  I  was 
expecting  my  husband.  Of  course,  plenty  knew  the 
facts,  but  none  that  matter.  Speak  of  us  kindly 
among  the  nice  people  —  for  Hastings'  sake.  There 
are  pleasant  men  here,  though  they  tend  to  be  elderly. 
I  want  to  stop  on  for  two  months  yet ;  then  go  north. 
We  probably  shan't  come  home  again  for  some  time 
—  a  year  or  more. ' ' 

Loveday  rose,  and  Una  Forbes  accompanied  her  to 
the  garden-gate,  plucked  a  bunch  of  roses  for  her, 
and  kissed  her  hand  at  parting. 

**  Thank  you  for  coming,"  she  said.  '*  You  have 
brought  a  cup  of  water  to  thirsty  lips.  You  may 
meet  Hastings  ascending  the  hill.  No,  you  won't; 
he'll  be  in  the  tram.  Good-bye  —  fix  your  own  night 
for  dinner  and  bring  a  friend  —  an  artist,  if  you 
know  one.     God  bless  you!  " 


CHAPTER  XVIII 


EDUCATION   ATTEMPTED 


**  I'm  at  that  exciting  stage  of  my  career  when  youth 
desires  to  teach  before  it  knows  anything  itself," 
said  Bertram.  "I'm  ridiculously  dogmatic  —  you'll 
have  observed  that.  It  is  only  the  people  who  know 
practically  nothing  that  are  in  such  a  devil  of  a  hurry 
to  teach.  If  ever  I  learn  anything  myself  really 
worth  knowing,  doubtless  I  shall  be  greedy,  and  keep 
it  to  myself." 

"  You  know  more  than  I  do,  at  any  rate,"  an- 
swered Loveday.     "  And  I  trust  you." 

They  began  with  Giotto,  and  proceeded  by  the  way 
of  Pisano  on  the  Campanile  to  the  imitators,  Taddeo 
and  Agnolo  Gaddi  and  the  more  original  Giovanni 
da  Milano.  Bertram  Dangerfield  showed  as  best  he 
could  the  clash  of  Sienese  and  Florentine  characters 
in  Milano ;  but  Loveday  was  not  quick  to  appreciate 
subtleties  of  style,  and  the  painter  soon  noticed  it. 
She  wanted  to  hurry  on  to  the  things  she  already 
loved,  and  learn  if  he  loved  them  too.  Day  after 
day  he  passed  over  precious  treasures  in  church  and 
gallery,  and  showed  not  by  a  glance  or  flutter  of 
eyelid  that  he  marked  them;  but  such  concentration 
was  foreign  to  the  girl.  Sometimes  she  differed  from 
him,    and,    finding   that   he   was   not    contemptuous, 


166         THE  JOY  OF  YOUTH 

spoke  her  mind.  Then  he  discovered  that  it  was 
difficult  to  change  her  opinion,  and  appreciated  her 
courage.  When  Loveday  said,  "  I  like  it,"  he  soon 
perceived  that  no  word  of  his  would  make  her  dislike 
it.  But  his  logic  was  always  frankly  admitted,  and 
she  never  quarrelled  with  his  knowledge.  "  Yes," 
she  would  say,  "I  see  it's  quite  out  of  the  upward 
stream  and  not  the  work  of  a  first-class  mind,  and 
not  Ruler  Art  in  the  least  bit,  but  —  I  like  it. ' ' 

As  an  example  of  their  differences,  she  approved 
the  realism  of  the  aforesaid  Giovanni  da  Milano, 
whereas  Bertram  did  not. 

In  the  Rinuccini  Chapel  at  Santa  Croce  was  a 
* '  Raising  of  Lazarus  ' '  with  men  holding  their  noses, 
which  Dangerfield  resented;  but  she  found  no  fault 
in  it. 

"  That  way  death  lies,"  said  he,  "  death,  now  as 
then.  Art,  and  not  only  painting,  is  full  of  people 
holding  their  noses  to-day.  Look  what  the  modern 
Italian  painters  are  doing,  for  instance." 

"  What  would  you  have?  Why  shouldn't  they?  " 
she  asked.  "  It's  true.  We  held  our  noses  going 
over  that  ditch  yesterday,  and  you  shuddered  too," 

**  Giotto  wouldn't  have  done  it.  Giottesques  are 
all  dust  beside  Giotto,"  he  declared.  He  relented  at 
the  Carmine,  however,  and  praised  Giovanni's  noble 
but  ruined  "  Virgin  Enthroned."  Giottino  he 
slighted,  and  turned  to  Andrea  Clone,  the  mighty 
Orcagna.  "  He  was  in  the  true  line  and  the  greatest 
from  Giotto,"  said  Loveday 's  guide.  "  He's  always 
severe  and  always  simple  —  no  Sienese  affectations 
about  him.  Even  more  human  to  me  that  Giotto 
himself." 


EDUCATION  ATTEMPTED    167 

"I'm  sure  he  was  human,  because  he  was  so 
humble,"  she  declared.  "  D'you  remember  the  de- 
bate as  to  who  was  the  greatest  from  Giotto,  and 
none  named  him?  You  would  have,  if  you  had  been 
there.     Yet  he  wasn't  hurt  at  their  silence." 

"  Hurt!  Rather  not  —  like  almost  all  very  big 
men,  he  never  dreamed  that  he  was  doing  splendid 
things.  Would  he  have  raised  the  question  if  he  had 
thought  that  his  own  name  might  be  the  answer? 
Still,  he  was  far  the  greatest  swell  since  the  Tuscan 
shepherd.  I  love  him  because  he's  on  our  side:  he 
cares  for  youth  and  happiness  —  a  joyous  master. ' ' 

They  visited  the  great  tabernacle,  and  Bertram 
mourned  its  site, 

"  It's  choked  and  smothered  here,"  he  said.  "  Like 
the  Wellington  monument  by  Stevens  in  St.  Paul's 
Cathedral.  There  was  something  of  Orcagna  in 
Stevens.  I  suppose  England  will  discover  what 
Stevens  was  in  the  remote  future  —  the  very  greatest 
and  grandest  master  of  design  she  has  ever  enter- 
tained—  like  an  angel,  unawares." 

Occasionally  the  pictures  took  them  into  abstract 
channels  of  thought,  and  they  chattered,  forgot  their 
work,  and  wasted  their  time. 

Of  Spinello  he  told  her  the  legend,  how  that  painter 
was  frightened  to  death  by  his  own  Lucifer;  and, 
of  course,  the  story  led  to  ideas. 

"  It's  interesting  beyond  anything,"  he  said,  "  to 
think  what  effects  an  artist's  work  may  have  on  the 
artist  himself.  We  make  things  and,  meantime,  they 
make  us  —  for  good  or  evil. ' ' 

"  Not  only  painters,  but  any  sort  of  artists?  '^  she 
asked. 


168         THE  JOY  OF  YOUTH 

* '  Yes  —  any  creator.  It 's  a  criterion  in  a  way. 
The  second-raters  are  influenced  by  the  world's  opin- 
ion of  their  work,  and  perhaps,  unconsciously,  if  they 
find  they  can  give  the  world  what  it  wants,  they  go  on 
doing  so,  and  are  very  properly  damned  in  conse- 
quence ;  the  first-raters  only  answer  to  their  own  ideals, 
and  the  clamour  of  the  world  is  nothing  to  them. 
They  give  the  world  what  it  needs.  But  even  the 
strong  man  —  be  he  grim  or  gay  —  is  as  sure  to  be  in- 
fluenced by  his  work  as  other  people  —  influenced  for 
good  or  evil.  In  fact,  he 's  more  certain  to  be  influenced 
than  anybody  else  —  just  as  fathers  and  mothers  are 
hugely  influenced  by  their  children.  Take  this  age 
—  why,  the  fathers  and  mothers  are  simply  dominated 
and  put  in  the  corner  by  their  children.  Nobody 
has  considered  what  the  environment  of  a  long  family 
means  to  the  character  of  parents  —  except  those  who 
have  faced  it  and  felt  it." 

"  What  did  you  do  for  your  unfortunate  father 
and  mother?  "  she  asked. 

"  I  did  my  mother  good,"  he  declared,  "  and  my 
father  harm.  I  enlarged  my  mother's  mind  and 
made  her  tolerant  of  ideas  that  she  had  been  accus- 
tomed to  hate;  but  I  spoiled  my  father's  temper, 
which  was  quite  decent  till  I  reached  the  age  of  seven- 
teen—  poor  man.  If  he'd  only  lived  till  I  was 
twenty-three,  I  should  have  gone  on  my  knees  to  him 
for  forgiveness.  But  he  didn't,  and  died  despairing 
of  me." 

"  The  fathers  create  the  children,"  said  Loveday: 
**  and  then  the  children  go  on  helping  the  fathers 
to  create  themselves." 

**  Helping  or  hindering." 


EDUCATION  ATTEMPTED    169 

"  You  were  rather  a  little  opinionated  wretch,  I 
expect. ' ' 

"  I  was;  but  we're  digressing.  The  artist  is  in- 
fluenced by  his  work  —  that's  the  text.  "Well,  of 
course  he  is  —  it 's  evolution  in  a  nutshell.  Evolution, 
in  the  grand  style,  is  merely  God  trying  to  go  one 
better;  and  we  artists  are  all  little  godlings  and  all 
trying  to  go  one  better;  so  naturally  our  own  work 
influences  our  characters.  And,  if  there  is  a  God, 
His  work  must  influence  Him." 

"  Perhaps  it  does." 

"  A  big  speculation,  but  likely.  Leibnitz  defines 
God  as  the  Substance  that  has  no  point  of  view. 
Pretty  good  for  a  metaphysician.  At  any  rate,  if  He 
has,  He's  always  shifting  it." 

' '  That 's  flippant, ' '  she  said. 

' '  Not  at  all  —  merely  a  scientific  observation.  The 
Substance  changes  its  mind  as  often  as  a  woman;  it 
may  be  feminine,  for  all  we  know  to  the  contrary. 
I  believe  the  militant  suffragettes  have  come  to  that 
conclusion.  Anyway,  you  and  I  shouldn't  be 
what  we  are,  and  you  wouldn't  be  thinking  as 
you  are  thinking,  and  I  shouldn't  be  making  the 
things  I'm  making,  were  it  not  for  what  we've  been 
thinking  and  making  in  the  past.  We  ripe  and  ripe, 
and  the  live  things  we  make  are  the  foundations  of 
the  things  to  come,  until  we  get  to  high-water  mark. 
But,  thank  Nature,  we  artists  never  exactly  know 
when  we've  reached  the  summit,  and  so  go  happily 
on,  and  rot  and  rot,  and  never  guess  it,  and  still  toil 
while  our  withered  old  hands  can  hold  our  tools  and 
our  withered  old  brains  direct  them." 

Loveday   was  weary  of  the   Carmine   before   her 


170         THE  JOY  OF  YOUTH 

teacher  had  done  with  Masaccio  and  Masolino;  but 
he  inflicted  his  natural  and  boundless  enthusiasm  for 
these  masters  upon  her,  and  strove  to  make  her  share 
his  love  for  the  younger  and  later  painter. 

"  Remember  when  he  worked,  and  that  he  was  only 
as  old  as  I  am  when  he  died,"  said  Bertram,  "  And 
yet  he  built  the  foundations  of  the  greatness  of  the 
whole  Florentine  School.  He  solved  mysteries  that 
none  had  solved.  I  think  he  re-discovered  what  the 
Greeks  probably  knew.  He  stands  as  much  alone  as 
Turner:  '  terrible,'  as  they  call  him  here  —  a  giant, 
as  great  in  his  own  way  as  Michelangelo,  and  died 
almost  a  boy!  " 

He  fixed  a  gulf  between  his  favourite  genius  and 
the  lesser  man. 

"  Masolino  you  can  link  at  a  distance  with  An- 
gelico, ' '  he  said,  *  *  and  you  must  go  to  Angelico  alone.. 
You  don't  want  me,  or  anybody,  between  you  and 
the  sweetest  genius  that  ever  spread  pure  colour  to 
the  glory  of  his  God.  His  piety,  unfortunately, 
makes  me  feel  like  the  fiend  when  there's  holy  water 
about  —  uneasy.  Give  me  my  Masaccio.  We  should 
have  been  happy  together." 

Therefore  Loveday  went  to  Fra  Angelico  alone,  as 
he  bade  her,  and  was  joyful  and  unhappy  by  turns. 

**  He  made  me  want  to  forget  thousands  of  things 
you  have  told  me,"  she  said.  "  He  made  me  feel 
full  of  human  kindness  and  long  to  say  my  prayers 
again  —  as  I  used  to  say  them  when  I  was  small. ' ' 

*'  Say  them  to  him,  then,"  suggested  Bertram. 
"  He'd  love  to  listen,  and  feel  ever  so  sorry  that  you 
had  not  been  a  blessed  nun  to  be  painted  into  a 
masterpiece  in  his  day.     But  I  would  not  have  had 


EDUCATION  ATTEMPTED    171 

him  paint  you.  Ghirlandajo  was  the  man.  How 
proudly  you  had  footed  it  among  his  grand  ladies  at 
Santa  Maria  Novella!  " 


CHAPTER  XIX 

VALLOMBROSA 

Under  great  heights,  full  of  the  murniur  and  sweet- 
ness of  the  pine,  earth  rolled  away  over  undulating 
country,  from  which  sunshine  had  soaked  much 
colour.  It  billowed,  tawny  as  the  pelt  of  a  lion,  but 
faint  green  washed  it  fitfully  where  faraway  vine- 
yards stretched,  and  white  roads  cut  it  every  way, 
into  squares  and  triangles  and  circles,  as  they  rose 
and  fell  and  twisted,  like  threads  tangled  upon  the 
hills.  Cultivation  draped  rather  than  clothed  this 
land.  It  laid  no  heavy  garment  upon  earth,  but 
spread  only  a  shining  and  translucent  robe  between 
her  and  the  sun's  fierce  kisses. 

Here  a  company  of  cypress,  dwarfed  to  a  mere 
splash  of  darkness,  crowned  a  knoll  together  or 
stretched  to  mark  a  boundary;  here  solitary  farms 
shone  white  and  red  amongst  their  terraces  and 
meadows;  here  a  hamlet,  with  earth-coloured  walls 
and  russet  roofs,  clustered  in  a  valley  or  girdled  some 
little  campanile  on  a  hill-top;  and  bluer  than  the 
olives  that  belted  each  height ;  bluer  than  Arno,  where 
she  wound  beneath  them;  bluer  than  the  blue  sky's 
self,  earth's  lover,  the  air,  lapped  all  and  melted  all 
together,  so  that  the  immense,  intricate  scene,  despite 
its  bewildering  detail,  wrought  out  league  upon  league 
to  the  last  glimmer  of  remote  snow,  was  enwrapped, 
caressed,  impregnated  by  it. 


VALLOMBROSA  173 

But  this  far-flung  distance  of  plains  and  hills  rising 
to  the  Apennine  was  not  more  than  a  little  wedge  of 
the  world  driven  in  between  the  shoulder  of  high 
ground  and  the  sky.  Heaven,  indeed,  claimed  three- 
parts  of  the  vision,  and  the  uplifted  foreground  em- 
braced a  large  measure  of  the  rest.  For  there  a 
mountain  towered.  It  ascended  by  successive  slopes, 
was  threaded  by  pathways,  intersected  by  ravines 
and  torrents,  broken  by  many  a  crag.  And  the  forest 
spread  over  it,  tier  upon  tier,  in  strophe  and  anti- 
strophe  of  darkness  and  light,  in  melodies  of  golden 
green  to  the  crowns  of  the  land,  in  passages  that 
steeped  the  mountain  with  the  gloom  of  a  thunder- 
cloud. The  chestnut  woods  thronged  lower,  and  their 
leaves  were  scarcely  unfurled;  the  beeches  blazed 
to  each  hill  crest,  and  firs  also  held  their  part  with 
them;  but  the  might  and  mystery  of  Vallombrosa 
homed  in  the  pines  —  the  pines  that  leapt  so  straight 
and  true  to  their  sombre  canopies,  that  swept  the 
slopes  and  glens,  rose  to  the  high  places,  and  drifted 
forward  in  their  innumerable  battalions  like  night 
itself.  Generation  upon  generation  they  dwell  to- 
gether, from  the  giants  that  were  seedlings  when 
genius  moved  amid  these  shades,  to  the  sprightly 
promise  of  forests  to  come  and  the  infant  plantations 
as  yet  no  greater  than  the  weeds  whence  they  sprang. 
To  shadow  and  to  shelter  is  their  mission ;  to  spread 
cool  purple  upon  the  fiery  earth  and  shield  it  with 
their  implicated  wings  against  the  hurricanes  of 
autumn  and  winter 's  snow.  Their  sobriety  is  like  the 
frown  of  dark  cliffs  fluted  with  silver,  and  against 
their  level  edges  and  precipices  of  close  trunks  the 
vernal  green  of  deciduous  things  rolls  and  ceases,  like 


174.         THE  JOY  OF  YOUTH 

a  sea.  The  savour  of  them  and  the  music  of  them 
fail  not  to  touch  a  wanderer's  heart-strings,  for  they 
harbour  the  incarnate  spirit  of  these  glades,  and  none 
may  stand  without  tribute  of  joy  and  wonder  amid 
their  bright  columns  and  look  upward  to  the  blue  that 
frets  their  darkness,  or  downward  to  the  azure  earth 
far  seen  between  their  aisles. 

Rivers  flash  amid  the  woods;  leap  sheer  and  spout 
their  bright  threads  upon  a  precipice ;  linger  in  little 
basins  of  grey  marble;  vanish  and  murmur  unseen 
until  they  twinkle  out  again.  And  the  humbler  folk 
of  the  forest  throng  the  waterways,  to  drape  them 
with  sallow  and  hazel,  and  adorn  them  with  genista 
and  daphne  and  great  crucifers  as  white  as  snow; 
with  mountain  strawberry  and  cyclamen,  saxifrage 
and  rue.  The  sun-shafts  iind  all  these  things, 
struggle  through  the  steadfast  pines  to  come  to  them, 
and  splinter  and  splash  into  the  secret  places,  that 
they  may  lave  each  little  new-born  gem  with  light. 
There  wander  also  under  the  pines  sprightly  beech 
saplings,  that  make  a  sudden  brightness  as  of  laughter 
in  these  sombre  denes. 

"  Like  dear  little  babies  who  have  toddled  into  a 
party  of  sad,  ancient  people,"  said  Loveday. 

She  knelt  beside  Miss  Annette  Neill-Savage  and 
helped  Dangerfield  to  unpack  a  luncheon-basket.  He 
had  brought  the  party  to  Vallombrosa  in  his  auto- 
mobile, that  he  might  see  Loveday 's  emotion  at  the 
woods.  ' '  Here  Milton  walked  with  Galileo  —  a 
hard-boiled  egg,  Loveday,  please,"  said  Stella 
presently  —  and  between  the  courses  of  the  luncheon 
she  repeated  her  reflection.  But  when  their  meal  was 
finished,  to  the  last  dry  walnut  and  glass  of  sparkling 


VALLOMBROSA  175 

wine,  the  lady  became  more  speculative,  and  won- 
dered how  Milton  liked  it. 

"  Doubtless  a  holy  joy  to  such  a  mind,"  declared 
Annette;  while  Bertram  considered  the  speech  of  the 
two  great  men. 

"  What  a  fine  conversation  Landor  would  have 
made  of  them,"  said  Loveday. 

"  He  did,"  answered  the  artist.  "  But  not  about 
them  in  Vallombrosa.  He  makes  Milton  visit  the 
philosopher  in  prison,  with  a  monk  as  key-bearer. 
The  young,  fiery  Milton's  wrath  at  the  old  man's 
plight  is  finely  done.  Galileo,  tinctured  with  age, 
declares  that  the  spirit  of  liberty  wakes  mad  enthusi- 
asm and  leaves  behind  it  bitter  disappointment.  And 
there's  a  dramatic  line,  when  Milton  hopes  the  great 
man's  sentence  will  be  short,  and  he  answers,  *  It 
may  be,  or  not,  as  God  wills.  It  is  for  life.'  There's 
a  saying  of  Galileo 's  too :  *  We  may  know  that  there 
are  other  worlds,  and  we  may  hope  that  they  are 
happier.'  " 

"  It  sounds  a  thing  one  ought  to  read,"  declared 
Annette,  and  Bertram  nodded. 

"  There's  fine,  implicit  drama  when  Galileo  regrets 
that  the  cell  is  so  small  for  Milton's  feet.  You  see 
the  poet-to-be,  hot  with  passion  before  this  villainy, 
tramping  like  a  young  tiger  up  and  down  the  prison, 
and  old  Galileo  watching  him." 

He  laughed  suddenly. 

"  Another  good  thing!  Milton,  in  his  scorn  for 
all  that's  frozen  and  lifeless,  says  that  '  an  academi- 
cian, a  dunghill,  and  a  worm  are  three  sides  of  an 
equilateral  triangle!  '  " 

After  luncheon  Miss  Neill-Savage  was  not  ashamed 


176  THE  JOY  OF  YOUTH 

to  hint  at  a  nap,  and  Annette,  who  had  also  walked 
enough,  proposed  to  smoke  a  cigarette  and  watch  over 
her  sister.  Loveday  and  the  painter  wandered  away 
together,  but  when  they  had  departed  Stella  did  not 
go  to  sleep;  instead  she  sighed,  and  said  that  it  was 
all  very  stupid  and  utterly  wrong. 

''  They're  falling  in  love  with  each  other  as  fast  as 
two  emotional  creatures  can,"  she  said,  "  and,  of 
course,  if  there's  trouble,  we  shall  be  blamed  for  it. 
We  have  no  authority,  but  if  I  had,  I  should  certainly 
exercise  it  and  take  her  home." 

Her  sister  was  less  sentimental. 

**  You  needn't  worry,"  she  declared.  "  It's  harm- 
less enough.  He's  not  in  the  least  in  love  with  her, 
and,  even  if  he  was,  he 's  a  gentleman. ' ' 

* '  He  may  be,  but  that 's  often  the  first  thing  a  man 
forgets  when — " 

"He  won't.  She  likes  him  better  than  he  likes 
her,  I  fancy;  but  Loveday 's  a  clever  girl  under  her 
skin.  In  fact,  her  ingenuousness  is  rather  put  on. 
Anyway,  she  knows  which  side  her  bread  is  buttered. 
No  sane  woman  would  miss  her  destiny  for  the  sake 
of  a  harum-scarum  painter.  What's  somebody  else's 
fame  compared  to  her  own  as  mistress  of  Vane- 
stowe?  " 

The  boy  and  girl  did  not  climb  far.  Soon  they  sat 
down  together  on  a  stone,  and  she  murmured  of  the 
beauty  round  her.  Then  she  bade  him  pick  flowers 
and  gather  roots  to  send  home;  and  he  covered  him- 
self with  glory  by  digging  up  the  corm  of  a  cycla- 
men whose  fading  leaves  betrayed  it. 

' '  Where  there  are  pines  there  is  always  sweetness, ' ' 
said  Loveday;  and  she  made  him  dig  up  a  dozen  of 


VALLOMBROSA  177 

the  little  seedling  conifers  which  scattered  the  ground. 

"  I  shall  send  them  in  a  box  to  Fry,"  she  said, 
"  and  they  must  be  grown  on.  I  should  think  they 
would  take  about  two  hundred  years  to  reach  their 
full  size." 

"  Your  great-great-grandchildren  will  play  under 
them." 

"  What  d'you  think  of  up  here?  "  she  asked,  when 
they  fell  into  a  silence  presently. 

"  Of  the  olden  time,"  he  said.  "  I've  just  got  an 
idea  as  I  lighted  this  cigar  —  an  idea  about  the 
ancient  gods.  You  think  of  them  in  these  high  places. 
They  were  not  one,  but  many  —  that's  the  point  to 
consider;  and  another  thing,  they  weren't  separated 
in  kind  from  man,  only  in  degree.  Pindar  says  that 
men  and  gods  sprang  all  from  the  same  mother, 
Earth ;  though  he  adds  that  the  race  of  men  is  nought, 
and  the  '  brazen  heaven  abideth.'  But  it  wasn't  all 
one  way.  They  even  chaffed  their  gods  sometimes, 
like  little  brothers  cheek  big  ones;  and  they  consid- 
ered it  quite  reasonable  that  their  divinities  should 
give  as  well  as  take,  and  even  bend  to  human  opinion 
now  and  then.  Moira  was  above  the  gods,  and 
greater  than  they  for  that  matter.  The  rationale  of 
paganism  in  its  bearing  on  human  life  is  jolly  sane. 
Don't  you  think  so?  " 

"  I'll  see  if  I  do,  after  you've  explained,"  an- 
swered Loveday. 

"  Well,  the  logical  mind  of  the  Golden  Age  was 
called  to  build  a  working  creed  from  prehistoric 
myth,  and  it  evolved  a  pantheon  that  should  meet  the 
many  problems  and  contradictions  of  existence.  The 
dogma  of  one  watchful,  loving,  and  paternal  Deity 


178         THE  JOY  OF  YOUTH 

had  no  temptation  for  the  Greek  genius,  since  the 
events  of  every  day  and  hour  convinced  him  of  its 
futility.  No  single  god  might  rationally  meet  the 
ease,  but  given  a  house  of  gods  —  a  family  of  divini- 
ties moved  by  various  interests,  at  sharp  variance 
amongst  themselves,  vested  with  varying  supernatural 
powers  and  profoundly  interested  in  mankind  and  his 
fate;  then  is  unfolded  a  most  plausible  theory  of 
human  life  with  its  disabilities,  contradictions,  tri- 
umphs, tragic  paradoxes,  and  appalling  dilemmas 
from  which  escape  there  is  none,  and  action  only  a 
choice  of  horrors." 

*'  I  see  that." 

"  Granted  these  greater  brothers  and  sisters  of 
humanity  and  the  others  —  those  sub-celestials  with 
human  blood  in  their  veins  —  then  you  get  the  whole 
splendid  pageant  of  Greek  and  Latin  mythology  — 
rich  for  moralists  and  artists  and  everybody.  On 
that  poetic  basis  you  can  explain  the  whole  show; 
but  given  one  supreme,  consistent,  and  omnipotent 
Being,  you  can  explain  nothing.  I'll  bet  Goethe  felt 
that,  and  Landor,  and  Swinburne.  They  were  both 
braver  than  Goethe.  He  hedged  a  bit  at  the  finish. 
But  the  old  nearly  always  hedge,"  asserted  the 
painter. 

They  wandered  presently  where  a  little  shrine  stood 
beside  a  steep  path  of  cobble-stones,  and  Bertram 
read  a  I^atin  inscription  that  told  how  good  San 
Giovanni  Gualberto  was  flung  headlong  by  Satan 
over  the  crags  to  the  torrent  below,  but  found  himself 
none  the  worse  for  the  adventure. 

"  No  doubt  the  great  god  Pan  scented  brimstone 
and  waited  by  the  waterfall,  and  caught  the  saint 


VALLOMBROSA  179 

when  he   fell,   and   got  a  splendid  blessing  for  his 
trouble,"  said  Loveday. 

There  came  mountain  men  passing  to  the  valley 
with  great  bundles  of  brush  and  beechwood  charcoal, 
which  they  carried  upon  their  backs.  Being  ques- 
tioned gravely  concerning  the  miracle  of  the  saint, 
they  confirmed  it. 

The  painter  gave  them  each  a  Tuscan  cigar  —  to- 
bacco that  he  carried  always  for  presents  —  and  they 
clattered  down  the  cobble-stones  to  Vallombrosa,  the 
happier  for  his  gift. 

**  Francis  of  Assisi  is  my  patron  saint,"  declared 
Bertram,  "  so  I  beg  you'll  make  him  yours.  He  is 
a  most  blessed  and  beautiful  spirit,  and  had  blessed 
and  beautiful  ideas.  The  sun  was  his  brother;  death 
was  his  sister.  "When  no  longer  he  could  see  his 
brother  shining  in  the  heaven,  he  would  shut  his  eyes 
and  go  to  sleep  with  his  sister.  He  of  all  the  mystics 
knit  man  closest  into  the  very  web  of  Nature;  but 
he  could  not  feel  that  man  was  the  only  thing  that 
mattered  among  all  the  other  wonderful  things  in  the 
world.  That  was  what  I  love  him  for.  Even  my 
heroes,  the  humanists,  have  not  his  poetry  and  fire. 
They  think  man  is  everybody,  and  I  don't.  The 
birds,  and  the  beasts,  and  the  strange,  silent,  un- 
knowable people  of  the  river,  who  never  shut  their 
eyes  and  whose  blood  is  cold  —  Saint  Francis  claimed 
kinship  and  brotherhood  with  them  all.  And  there- 
fore, in  his  simple  enthusiasm  and  fervour,  he  brought 
to  them  the  very  best  and  greatest  thing  that  he  had 
to  bring  —  Jesus.  It  seemed  to  him  that  not  a  living 
being  but  must  be  the  better  for  his  Master's  mes- 
sage.    If  ever  he  came  here,  I  think  his  voice  must 


180         THE  JOY  OF  YOUTH 

have  risen  among  these  glorious  trees  to  utter  the 
name  of  Christ  for  them  too." 

"  "What  a  fairyland  the  world  must  have  been  to 
him,"  said  Loveday.  "  I  wish  I'd  lived  then.  A 
saint  is  just  what  I'm  always  wanting  to  put  my 
faith  in  and  reverence  and  trust." 

"It's  a  far  cry  from  St.  Francis  to  Goethe,"  he 
answered ;  ' '  and  yet,  of  course,  Goethe  is  more  use- 
ful to-day  than  St.  Francis.  You  ask  for  something 
to  waken  faith  and  reverence.  He'll  tell  you  that 
there  are  only  four  things  to  reverence:  those  above 
you,  those  below  you,  those  equal  wdth  you,  and  — 
yourself.  Which  really  is  only  St.  Francis  over 
again,  for  he  loved  all  things,  both  great  and  small. 
But  the  highest  you  can  reach  —  the  faith  to  move 
mountains  —  is  the  faith  in  your  kind.  Goethe  was 
no  materialist,  but  no  mystic  either.  He  said  that 
though  subject  to  mechanical  necessities,  as  being  live 
creatures  compacted  of  elements,  we  can  yet  move 
on  another  plane  too,  and  fly,  with  wings  that  will 
carry  us  above  the  stars.  He  found  that  happen  to 
himself;  and  so  he  had  to  chronicle  it,  and  show  that 
the  link  between  temporal  and  eternal  lies  within, 
and  that  the  mechanical  chains  don't  signify  a  straw. 
The  only  chains  that  matter  are  those  we  forge  our- 
selves. ' ' 

"  But  you   don't  believe   that?  "  she   asked. 

**  No,"  he  answered,  "  not  at  present.  Because  I 
have  forged  chains  for  myself.  I  am  a  monist.  I 
chose  those  particular  fetters  because  my  mind  finds 
itself  most  comfortable  in  them.  You  must  dress 
your  mind  in  some  clothes,  as  well  as  your  body,  if 
you're  not  a  savage.     A  thinking  being  must  think. 


VALLOMBROSA  181 

I  might  stop  being  a  monist  to-morrOAV ;  but  at  present 
there  is  nothing  else  that  suits  and  supports  my  mind. 
For  me  '  free  will  '  is  one  of  man's  supreme  delu- 
sions. '  * 

"  Don't  begin  that  again.  You  said  so  before,  and 
I  said  you  were  wrong,"  declared  Loveday. 

'*  Then  of  course  I  am  wrong.  So  let  your  wings 
carry  you  above  the  stars.  Eeverence  St.  Francis 
and  believe  in  yourself,  for  he  knows  that  you  '11  never 
find  a  lovelier  thing  to  believe  in." 

He  paid  her  these  sudden  compliments  sometimes, 
and  they  made  her  laugh,  for  they  were  always  ut- 
tered in  a  tone  so  indifferent  that  any  charm  of  state- 
ment they  might  possess  was  lost  in  the  manner  of 
making  them. 

They  returned  to  the  sisters,  and  found  both  anx- 
ious to  start  homeward. 

**  We  drink  tea  at  half-past  four  with  friends," 
said  Stella;  and  as  they  returned  to  the  automobile, 
Annette  surprised  them. 

*  *  It  is  most  beautiful  here  to-day  —  an  experience 
to  remember,"  she  said.  "  But  my  imagination  runs 
on  to  another  picture.  I  have  been  trying  to  imagine 
these  eternal  forests,  '  when  the  Apennine  walks 
abroad  with  the  storm.'  " 

"  It  would  be  terrible  and  glorious,"  declared 
Loveday. 

' '  But  not  a  sight  you  could  hope  to  see  in  personal 
comfort,  and  therefore  not  a  sight  I  should  wish  to 
see  at  all,"  added  Annette. 

Dangerfield  made  no  comment,  but  henceforth,  in 
secret  with  Loveday,  he  alluded  to  the  younger  sister 
as  '*  the  Apennine." 


,182         THE  JOY  OF  YOUTH 

"  She  doesn't  quote  as  much  as  you  do,  anyway," 
was  her  reply. 

Homeward  they  flew,  setting  a  trail  of  dust  hang- 
ing a  mile  behind  them  and  marking  the  zig-zag  road. 

"  The  patience  and  forbearance  of  the  people  to 
endure  us !  "  cried  Loveday.  * '  I  hate  to  think  how 
we  are  choiring  their  little  windows  and  spoiling  the 
very  air  they  breathe.  Who  are  we  to  dare  to  come 
among  them  with  this  foul,  bellowing  thing?  I 
wonder  they  don't  turn  round  and  cut  our  tyres  to 
pieces  and   block  our  way  and  silence   us." 

"  They  are  meek  and  gentle  as  their  own  great 
steers,"  Bertram  answered.  "  They  have  not  reached 
the  fighting,  English  stage  yet.  They  don't  think; 
they  merely  endure.     Their  time  is  to  come." 

The  automobile  slid  downwards  among  the  chest- 
nut woods  to  the  vines,  where  they  flung  tender 
shadows  over  the  sun-scorched  earth,  and  where  the 
limpid  blue  of  the  flax  and  the  brave  lavender  of  the 
iris  fields  made  Loveday  gasp  for  joy. 

"  You  want  a  place  as  big  as  Italy  to  grow  flowers 
properly  —  Devonshire's  too  small,"  she  said. 


CHAPTER  XX 

THE    STUDIO 

Dangerpield 's  villa  stood  in  the  Corso  Regina  Elena, 
but  his  studio  was  at  San  Miniato.  Here,  before 
five  o'clock,  Stella  Neill-Savage  and  Loveday  ar- 
rived, and  he  kept  them  waiting.  A  girl  brought 
them  upstairs,  to  find  the  painter  in  a  long  Tuscan 
blouse  of  sponge-coloured  canvas,  much  spattered  and 
smeared  with  divers  hues.  He  was  working,  and  a 
model  sat  on  a  dais  in  the  middle  of  the  studio, 

' '  Forgive  me,  but  there  are  fifteen  minutes  more, ' ' 
said  Bertram.  * '  Play  about ;  there 's  plenty  to 
amuse  you." 

Miss  Neill-Savage,  slightly  flattered  at  the  idea  of 
being  told  to  "  play  about  "  by  a  boy  of  six-and- 
twenty,  settled  herself  upon  a  purple  cushion  in  a 
great  walnut  chair  of  state  and  drew  forth  her  fan; 
while  Loveday,  with  shy  glances  at  the  model,  made 
an  excursion  round  the  workshop. 

It  was  a  large  and  lofty  room,  lighted  by  a  great 
window  northward,  beneath  which  opened  a  lesser 
window  within  reach  of  the  eye.  A  mighty  view 
of  Florence  and  Arno  spread  here,  and  now  it  shone 
in  the  mellowing  colour  of  evening,  and  reminded, 
Loveday  of  her  first  vision. 

A  polished  stone  floor  belonged  to  the  studio,  and 
it  was  half-covered  with  faded  Persian  rugs  and  a 


184  THE  JOY  OF  YOUTH 

strip  of  rose-coloured  grass  matting.  The  walls  were 
a  cool  grey ;  and  a  great  screen  on  wheels,  at  present 
behind  the  dais,  had  been  painted  of  the  same  colour. 
A  stove  with  a  snaky  pipe  that  wound  away  through 
the  roof,  stood  in  one  corner,  and  works  of  art  were 
arranged  with  some  method  round  the  chamber. 
There  were  full-sized  casts  of  certain  Greek  favourites, 
and  in  the  case  of  the  Venus  of  Melos,  the  Apoxyo^ 
menos  of  Lysippos,  the  Discobolus  of  Myron,  and  the 
Apollo  Sauroctonos,  the  copies  were  of  marble. 
A  marble  Duke  of  Urbino  from  the  Sacristy,  a  marble 
Hermes  of  Praxiteles,  and  a  marble  Venus  Victrix 
were  also  disposed  on  heavy  pedestals,  together  with 
one  or  two  unfamiliar  statues  of  Bertram's  special 
affection;  and  between  the  statues  stood  easels,  their 
canvases  covered  with  blinds  of  a  rose-grey  fabric. 
Upon  the  walls  were  the  usual  studio  notes  —  sketches 
in  oils  and  chalk  and  charcoal,  and  among  them  hung 
a  few  framed  oils  by  Italian  painters  —  light,  bright 
renderings  of  Tuscan  scenery.  A  great  curtain  of 
dark  blue  and  gold  fell  over  a  doorway,  and  in  one 
corner  stood  a  pile  of  mingled  pots  —  some  of  rough 
local  ware  in  the  biscuit  stage,  some  rich  with  a  trans- 
parent glaze,  some  red  and  black  Etruscan,  some  of 
dim  green  glass  from  Eastern  tombs.  A  dozen  bas- 
reliefs  hung  upon  the  walls  —  mostly  copies  of  Dona- 
tello,  or  Greek  funereal  steles. 

It  was  a  workshop,  but  more  than  a  workshop. 
The  beauty  of  the  whole,  the  peace  of  the  colour, 
and  distinction  of  the  forms  had  not  happened  by 
accident. 

Loveday  noticed  a  portrait  of  the  little  serving- 
girl.     It    was    a    half-length    nude    in    pastel,    with 


THE  STUDIO  185 

wonderful  light  glimmering  over  the  brown  skin  and 
dark  hair.  There  was  another  pastel  of  Arno  on 
a  grey  day,  winding  sadly  with  turbid  and  yellow 
waters  under  naked  boughs.  The  single  smudge 
of  a  boat  on  the  river  completed  the  composition. 
Elsewhere  another  pastel  held  her  —  a  long  road 
stretching  between  broken  walls,  subdued  and  empty, 
then  ending  in  a  little  magic  passage  of  azure  and 
pale  amber,  where  sunlight  broke  through  and  found 
the  face  of  a  cottage.  It  was  like  an  opal  set  in  a 
great  margin  of  dim  pearl. 

Loveday  peeped  behind  another  little  curtain  to 
find  a  window  of  old  stained  glass.  It  opened  upon 
the  east  of  the  studio,  and  glimmered  like  wine. 
The  colours  entranced  her.  She  had  seen  them 
already  in  the  dusty  windows  of  the  Duomo. 

The  painter's  table,  with  its  litter  of  paints  and 
palettes  and  brushes,  appeared  to  be  the  only  untidy 
place  in  the  studio. 

* '  May  I  come  and  look  at  you  now  ?  ' '  asked  Love- 
day,  and  he  begged  her  to  do  so. 

The  model  was  a  man  of  venerable  and  dignified 
appearance.  His  silvery  hair  was  thrown  off  his 
forehead  and  hung  in  ripples;  his  beard  was  white; 
and  his  brown  face,  withered  brow,  sunk  cheek, 
and  sad  but  thoughtful  brown  eyes  completed  a 
picture  of  noble  old  age. 

The  old  man  was  clad  in  a  flowing  robe  of  rose- 
red,  from  which  loose  sleeves  of  white  appeared.  A 
gilt  chain  was  flung  round  his  neck,  and  his  distin- 
guished hand  —  a  wonder  of  great  veins  —  held  an 
old  tome  of  leather  embossed  with  gold. 

"  Jacopo  is  the  biggest  humbug  in   Italy,"  said 


186         THE  JOY  OF  YOUTH 

Bertram.  "He  is  said  to  have  killed  his  wife  and 
done  all  sorts  of  abominable  things.  He  was  left  for 
dead  at  Fiesole  two  years  ago  after  a  brawl  over  a 
woman.  But  he 's  as  tough  as  a  crocodile  and  as  wily 
as  a  fox." 

Then  in  Italian  he  bade  the  model  lift  up  his  eyes, 
whereupon  Jacopo  east  an  expression  as  of  a  sera- 
phic vision  upon  his  countenance  and  regarded  the 
ceiling  with  such  rapture  of  pure  piety  that  Loveday 
clapped  her  hands  and  gave  him  a  lira,  Jacopo 
was  dismissed  anon,  and  Bertram  prepared  to  doff 
his  blouse,  but  Loveday  begged  him  to  keep  it  on. 

"  I've  never  seen  you  in  it  before.  It  helps 
me  to  realise  you  really  do  work,"  she  said.  *'  Some- 
times I  can't  believe  you  really  do." 

"  One  cannot  imagine  a  rich  artist,"  asserted 
Miss  Neill-Savage.  *'  When  they  work  for  a  living 
they  are  merely  artists;  if  they  are  wealthy  and 
still  make  pictures,  then  the  world  feels  it  is  rather  a 
condescension  on  their  part,  and  bows  reverently 
and  calls  them  brilliant  amateurs,  like  Brabazon." 

"  There's  always  a  gulf  fixed  between  amateurs 
and  professionals  all  the  same,"  said  Loveday,  ''how- 
ever brilliant  the  amateur  may  be.  Mr.  Danger- 
field's  a  professional,  and  always  would  have  been. 
It 's  only  an  accident  he 's  so  ridiculously  rich. ' ' 

"I'd  wish  an  artist  ambition  and  perseverance, 
then  money,"  he  said.  "  The  first  two,  of  course,  are 
vital,  and  the  third  is  death  without  them ;  but  given 
ambition  that  scorches  you  and  eats  you  alive,  and 
perseverance  that  makes  you  work  to  the  very  limit 
of  your  love  and  your  strength,  then  money  is  an 
enormous  advantage  and  priceless  boon.     At  least, 


THE  STUDIO  187 

so  I've  found  it.  Hunger  and  necessity  have  pro- 
duced great  art,  but  not  the  greatest  and  purest  and 
most  perfect.  The  artist  who  needs  any  other  goad 
than  the  inner  fire  burning  to  get  out,  belongs  to  a 
second  order  at  best." 

He  brought  them  a  sheaf  of  copies  made  by  him- 
self during  the  past  five  years.  They  were  mostly  of 
Andrea  d'Agnolo  and  Titian. 

"  I  went  to  Madrid  for  Titian,"  he  told  them. 
"  But  that  copy  of  '  Sacred  and  Profane  Love  '  I 
did,  of  course,  in  Rome." 

"  I  read  a  review  of  your  work  somewhere  that 
declared  you  had  found  a  little  of  the  secret  of  Vene- 
tian gold,"  said  Miss  Neill-Savage. 

But  he  denied  it. 

*'  I  didn't  copy  to  find  secrets,"  he  said,  "  only  to 
strengthen  my  hand  and  teach  me  patience.  It  did 
that.  I  used  to  get  awfully  down  on  my  luck,  and 
sometimes  envy  the  brilliant  chaps  who  only  talk 
about  pictures  instead  of  paint  them,  and  sit  in  the 
seats  of  the  mighty  and  thunder  out  the  law  and 
the  prophets  to  us  poor  wretches  who  are  fighting  to 
make  things.  But  then  I  read  a  book  of  Lucan's. 
A  Bream,  it's  called,  and  the  great  man  shows  with 
cynical  indifference  what  led  him  to  give  up  creation 
proper  and  become  a  mere  critic  and  literary  trifler. 
Two  women  appear  before  him  in  his  dream:  one  is 
dirty,  plastered  with  clay,  ill-clad,  careworn,  hag- 
gard, with  hard  hands  and  weary  eyes;  the  other  is 
attired  in  fine  raiment  and  minces  in  her  going.  She 
is  lovely,  delicate,  refined,  self-possessed,  and  distin- 
guished. The  first  woman  is  Art;  the  second,  Cul- 
ture;  and  sad-eyed,   back-bent  Art  strives  for  the 


188         THE  JOY  OF  YOUTH 

Syrian's  soul,  pleads  for  it,  breathes  the  names  of  the 
giants  to  him  —  Phidias,  Polyclitus,  Myron,  Praxi- 
teles. Culture  meantime  remarks  that,  when  all  is 
done  and  said,  the  artist  is  only  a  slave;  that  the 
august  Phidias  himself  is  no  more  than  a  workman 
who  toils  with  his  hands  and  frets  away  his  manhood 
and  vigour  and  endowment  of  life  in  battering  of 
stones.  So  Lucian  abandons  art  for  cheap  fame  and 
pelf,  and  turns  from  an  artist's  work,  which  is  mak- 
ing of  things,  to  the  easier  business  of  prattling  about 
them.  It  pays  better,  and  wants  only  a  little  prac- 
tice to  deceive  everybody  —  but  the  artists  them- 
selves. Any  fool  can  do  it  in  six  weeks.  *  Tech- 
nique,' that's  the  blessed  word;  but  the  men  who 
matter  laugh  at  it." 

"  I  thought  '  technique  '  really  embraced  every- 
thing," said  Stella  Neill-Savage. 

**  Everything  and  nothing,  as  you  may  understand 
the  word,"  he  answered.  "  No  big  man  breaks  his 
shins  on  technique  to-day  —  in  any  art.  I  'm  a  form- 
alist myself,  and  believe  that  you  must  have  bones  to 
stand  up  and  take  your  place  in  the  world.  But  time 
will  decide  about  all  the  new  things  —  as  to  whether 
they  are  strong  enough  to  resist  the  impact  of  a  cen- 
tury or  so.  Oscar  Wilde  said  that  '  technique  is 
personality  —  not  to  be  taught  or  learned,  only  to 
be  understood.'  Goethe  in  another  sense,  declares 
frankly  that  technique  kills  art.  We  don 't  bother 
about  the  technique  of  the  giants  any  more  than  they 
did  themselves.  Euler  Art,  in  fact,  makes  its  own 
rules.  Be  an  inventor  and  '  damn  the  consequences,' 
even  if  Culture  damns  you  —  as  Mr.  Balfour  has  just 
politely  damned  modern  novelists  in  general,  because 


THE  STUDIO  189 

they  find  life  rather  dark  and  difficult  and  scorn  the 
line  of  least  resistance.  Great  art  is  the  lightning  of 
genius  plaj'ing  over  our  human  environment;  and 
you  can  no  more  decide  how  the  art  is  to  declare  itself 
than  you  can  dictate  where  the  lightning  shall  fall." 

But  the  prime  interest  for  Loveday  was  the  painter's 
own  pictures,  and  now  he  showed  them  to  her.  Some 
were  finished,  and  all  were  far  advanced  save  one. 

He  turned  to  that  first  —  a  drawing  roughed  in  of 
a  nude  Venus. 

"  This  is  just  a  sketch  for  it,  and  no  more.  I've 
got  everything  for  it  but  Venus  herself;  and  as  it's 
going  to  be  my  masterpiece,  I'm  in  no  hurry." 

''  Explain  it,"  said  Stella. 

"  Just  the  old  subject  —  Venus  coming  ashore  out 
of  the  foam.  You'd  say  it  couldn't  be  painted  any 
more;  but  it's  going  to  be.  She'll  feel  earth  making 
her  lovely  feet  tingle  in  a  moment.  There's  some- 
thing from  Leonidas  of  Tarentum  in  the  Greek  an- 
thology that  says  what  I  mean.  The  maiden  Venus 
squeezing  the  water  out  of  her  hair  with  sun-bright 
fingers  and  leaping  out  of  her  sea-mother's  breast 
into  the  passion  of  the  sunshine  and  the  warmth  and 
wonder  and  joy  of  earth.  On  the  shore  is  an  old,  mel- 
low, wise  skull,  a  lovely  colour,  like  the  black  bread 
the  cantaMni  eat.  Venus  says  that  life  is  beautiful. 
The  skull  says  that  life  is  short." 

'*  You  ought  to  have  a  butterfly,  to  say  that  life 
is  not  all,"  suggested  Loveday. 

"  No,"  he  answered,  **  I  won't  pretend  anything 
I  don't  know  is  true.  My  girl  Venus  will  ride  on  a 
nautilus  shell  that  I  found  among  the  treasures  at 
the  Bargello  —  the  colour  of  opal  set  in  gold." 


190         THE  JOY  OF  YOUTH 

'*  I  sHall  like  Botticelli's  coekle-sheU  better,"  said 
Loveday. 

"  I  dare  say  you  will.  I  have  thought  a  much 
more  glorious  Venus  rising  from  the  sea  than  I  can 
possibly  paint.  We  all,  from  the  Greeks  downward, 
dream  better  things  than  can  be  made  of  matter, 
just  as  Shakespeare  thought  better  things  than  he 
could  put  into  words." 

"  But  you  haven't  thought  a  better  Venus  than 
Botticelli's?  "  said  Loveday. 

"  An  artist's  visions  are  his  own.  You  can't  have 
a  study  of  comparative  inspirations.  I  wouldn't 
change  my  vision  for  anybody's  —  or  my  inspiration 
either." 

*'  Your  inspiration?  " 

**  Yes  —  you've  got  to  hear  about  that.  But  the 
dreams  of  the  Greeks!  Think  of  them.  Do  you 
suppose  that  Phidias  was  satisfied  with  his  Pallas 
Athene  of  gold  and  ivory,  or  the  Parthenon  pedi- 
ments? Not  he.  He  looked  back  to  the  dream  and 
sighed.  Think  of  the  visions  of  Praxiteles  stretch- 
ing their  hands  to  him  through  the  marble  —  never 
to  be  rescued.  The  medium  kills  —  that's  the  curse 
of  art.  None  ever  masters  it.  The  mightiest  are 
broken  on  their  medium  sometimes  —  like  Ision  on 
his  wheel." 

He  showed  them  a  finished  picture  called  "  Nature 
regarding  man  ' ' —  a  sorrowful,  mighty  figure  brood- 
ing beside  a  man  who  slept  amid  evidences  of  de- 
struction and  death,  painted  with  much  power  and 
with  lovely  colouring. 

"  Just  a  mother  finding  her  naughty  child  tired 
out  and  sound  asleep,  after  he's  done  all  the  mischief 


THE  STUDIO  191 

he  can.  Asleep  to  gather  strength  for  more  mis- 
chief," he  told  them. 

'*  It's  solemn,  and  the  colour  is  beautiful;  but  it's 
60  strange,"  said  Loveday. 

"  I'll  explain  all  some  day,  when  you're  in  a 
patient  mood,"  he  answered, 

*'  Is  it  just  maternal  sorrow  over  a  failure,  or 
sneaking,  material  pride  at  man's  strength  and  power 
to  turn  everything  else  upside  down?  "  asked  Stella. 
**  It  might  be  either." 

"  No,  I'm  not  so  subtle,"  he  said.  "  The  sneaking 
pride  is  a  splendid  idea;  but  it  doesn't  belong  to  this. 
I  picture  Nature  just  asking  herself,  in  a  piano  sort 
of  moment,  whether  man  was  quite  worth  while  — 
whether,  in  fact,  the  game  of  conscious  intelligence 
was  worth  the  awful  candle  that  man  lighted  to  play 
it  by.  She  decides  sorrowfully  that  it  was  not. 
She  feels  rather  as  Frankenstein  felt  before  his  mon- 
ster with  a  mind.  I  think  she's  considering  whether 
it  won't  be  better  to  polish  him  off  before  he  gets 
worse. ' ' 

"  And  yet  you  say  you're  no  pessimist,  Mr.  Dan- 
gerfield?  " 

Bertram  shook  his  head. 

"  I  was  when  I  painted  that.  One  denies  no 
mood.  Moods  are  the  roads  along  which  an  artist's 
soul  makes  its  expeditions  into  the  unknown.  This 
man,  you  see,  does  all  things,  and  even  lifts  his  hand 
against  his  mother.  He  defies  her  rules  and  scorns 
her  conditions,  and  tears  the  heart  out  of  her.  So 
she  beholds  him  with  shuddering  eyes  and  puzzles 
before  the  terrific  problem  of  his  future.  Here's 
another  mood.     This  I  call  *  Demeter  and  Abbas.'  " 


192  THE  JOY  OF  YOUTH 

It  was  a  small  canvas,  in  which  the  goddess  had 
come  thirsting  to  her  fountain,  and  the  little  boy, 
Abbas,  was  deriding  her.  Bertram  told  the  sequel 
of  the  legend,  and  Loveday  drank  it  in  greedily. 

"  How  delicious!  "  she  said,  "  And  what  a  dear, 
wicked  little  thing  you've  made  him!  But  the  great 
goddess  ought  to  have  had  more  sense  of  humour 
than  to  punish  a  tiny  child  so  dreadfully." 

"  It  was  before  she  lost  Persephone,  perhaps," 
he  answered.  "  Sorrow  had  not  sweetened  her 
divine  soul.  But  goddesses  —  even  in  the  melting 
mood  —  are  ticklish  things." 

"  I  love  the  light  in  your  pictures,"  declared  Love- 
day,  "It  is  not  so  sad  as  the  subjects  seem  to  be. 
One  would  think  the  sun  was  always  setting." 

'*  Here  it  has  not  risen,"  he  answered,  and  showed 
her  another.  **  That's  going  to  London  next  week. 
I  call  it  *  Ignorance  and  Terror.'  Another  mother 
and  child.  Ignorance  is  the  mother  of  Terror,  and 
there  will  be  no  terror  in  the  world  when  Reason 
has  banished  superstition  and  thrown  a  great  light 
through  the  meaning  of  things." 

A  haggard,  neolithic  woman  sat  with  her  baby  on 
her  lap  in  the  chill  light  before  morning.  The  woman 
pointed  at  a  formless,  hideous  something  —  tree- 
stump  or  monster ;  the  child  wept, 

"  When  the  sun  rises  over  those  mountains  it  will 
all  be  explained,"  said  the  artist. 

"  But  what  is  the  horror?  "  asked  Loveday. 
"  "What  is  that  ghastly,  formless  object  you  half  see 
and  half  feel?  " 

"  I  don't  know,"  he  answered.  "  I  don't  know 
myself  till  the  dawn  is  clearer.     It  may  be  a  stock 


THE  STUDIO  193 

or  stone,  the  sort  of  thing  the  first  man  made  into  a 
god  or  devil." 

' '  Everybody  will  want  to  know  what  it  is  all  about, 
and  they'll  say  you've  painted  a  puzzle  picture," 
prophesied  Miss  Neill-Savage.     He  laughed  at  that. 

"  All  works  of  art  ought  to  have  mystery  in  them. 
Now  we'll  go  out  on  to  the  loggia  and  see  the  picture 
I  shall  never  paint  but  always  dream  about  —  Firenze 
at  sunset.  Meantime,  what  do  you  think  of  this 
picture?  " 

It  was  a  girl 's  head  against  a  dim  green  light  —  a 
shadowy  loveliness  of  hair  died  into  the  background 
W'here  olives  misted  under  the  stars,  and  about  the 
bent  head  three  fireflies  hung,  streaking  the  gloom. 
One  drew  its  little  lamp  across  the  darkness  of  her 
hair. 

"How  perfect!"  cried  his  younger  visitor. 
*'  "What  a  joy  of  a  girl !  You  didn't  miss  that  dream, 
at  any  rate." 

"  Only  an  impression.     I  should  like  to  do  it  again 

—  if  you'll  let  me,"  he  said.  "  I  call  it  '  Madonna 
delle  Lucciole.'  " 

**  Good  gracious,  Loveday,  it's  you!  "  said  Stella. 
' '  And  you  never  saw  it  was !  Or  was  that  simply 
affectation?  " 

'  *  I  'm  not  like  that, ' '  declared  she.  * '  Say  it  isn  't, 
Bertram. ' ' 

"  It  isn't,  of  course.  You're  a  million  times 
lovelier  than  that.  Yet  you  were  the  model.  It's 
painted,  as  it  were,  *  after  '  you,  not  from  you.  So 
I  saw  you  at  the  Warners  after  dinner  that  evening, 
when  we  were  watching  the  fireflies  at  their  podere 

—  just  outlined  against  the  last  of  the  light.     It's 


194         THE  JOY  OF  YOUTH 

only  a  note  for  a  real  picture  —  if  you'll  sit  for  it." 
"  It's  an  inspiration,  and  you'll  never  do  it  half 
as  well  again,"  she  told  him;  but  he  assured  her 
that  with  her  help  he  would. 


CHAPTER  XXI 

loveday  to  ralegh 

"  Alvergo  Athena, 

*'  FiRENZE. 

*'  My  Dearest  Ralegh, — 

*'  I  must  try  and  give  you  a  glimpse  of  the 
great  Duomo  here  —  one  of  the  very  noblest  buildings 
in  Italy  or  the  world.  Standing  under  its  walls  is  like 
standing  under  a  great  cliff  on  a  seashore  —  a  cliff 
that  towers  up,  all  pencilled  with  delicate  patterns 
and  washed  with  lovely  colours.  One  feels  that  it  is 
as  old  as  the  world,  and  that  it  has  faced  everything 
that  came,  and  made  itself  more  and  more  beautiful 
and  mellow.  Time  has  melted  its  rose  and  pearl  and 
green  together,  and  overlaid  them  with  stains  of  old 
ripe  gold,  the  colour  of  apricots.  For  clefts  and 
crannies  in  this  cliff-face  are  big  doors  and  windows, 
which  break  it  with  deep  embrasures  and  twisted 
pillars  and  for  sea-fowl  there  are  the  white  and  grey 
and  mottled  pigeons  that  breed  here,  and  bask  on 
the  ledges  and  mouldings,  and  preen  their  wings  on 
the  heads  of  the  stone  saints.  Around  about  is  the 
ceaseless  din  and  roar  of  traffic  like  a  sea,  for  this 
wonderful  Cathedral  is  lifted  on  no  height  and  not 
separated  from  the  life  around  it.  Mean  houses 
elbow  it,  mean  tram-lines  wrap  it  round  and  round 
with   steel    ribbons,    whereon   little   gaudy   red   and 


196         THE  JOY  OF  YOUTH 

yellow  trams  circle,  clanging  and  rattling.  The  steel 
network  flashes  hotly  in  the  great  piazza  before  the 
Cathedral,  and  the  people  surge  every  day  —  rich 
and  poor,  busy  and  lazy,  silent  and  noisy.  But 
most  of  them  are  noisy,  for  they  really  cannot  get 
on  without  noise.  I  expect  that  I  shall  be  fearfully 
noisy  when  I  come  home  again,  and  want  a  whip  to 
crack  and  a  bell  to  jangle. 

"  I  love  to  see  the  girls  who  trip  about  in  pairs, 
like  twin  flowers  on  one  stem.  They  are  so  pretty, 
so  trim,  and  so  plump  —  delicious  little  women  — 
*  husband-high,'  as  we  say  in  Devon.  They  wear 
their  hair  up  in  a  great  mound,  or  sometimes  braided 
in  many  a  prettj^  fashion,  and  they  carry  their  dainty 
heads  proudly,  as  such  beautiful  little  gems  well  may. 
At  their  belts  you  see  a  rose,  or  cornflower,  or  carna- 
tion and  they  go  arm  in  arm  sometimes,  and  some- 
times hand  in  hand.  Then  there  are  the  soldiers, 
whose  bright  uniforms  make  the  brilliant  streets 
brighter  yet;  and  —  a  real  joy  —  yesterday  was 
flower-market  day,  and  I  went  and  spent  an  hour 
there.  Fry  would  have  laughed  at  the  things  they 
had  to  sell ;  but  the  roses  were  good,  and  a  few  other 
plants  that  you  do  at  Vanestowne  in  a  feeble  sort  of 
way.  Here  the  *  half -hardies  '  blossom  and  enjoy  it ; 
not  as  with  us,  in  the  sulfe  and  meagrely,  as  though 
under  compulsion  to  do  something  they  hated.  But 
they  don 't  know  what  a  rhododendron  means  here  — 
tell  Fry  that.  I'm  so  sorry  his  seedling  turned  out 
a  failure.  I  had  such  a  characteristic  letter  from 
him.  '  The  seedling  is  rubbish,'  he  wrote,  *  and 
Stacey's  wife's  baby  boy  has  been  born  without  feet. 
We  are  cheering  each  other  up.'     He  seemed  to  think 


LOVEDAY  TO  RALEGH       197 

the  catastrophes  were  about  equal.  I've  written  to 
poor  Mrs.  Stacey  and  said  that  very  likely  her  baby 
will  be  wonderfully  clever  or  something,  to  make  up 
for  such  a  fearful  loss.  Of  course,  the  kind  thing  to 
do  with  the  poor  mite  would  be  to  treat  it  as  Fry 
treated  the  rhododendron,  and  put  it  painlessly  to 
sleep.  But  that's  a  sort  of  kindness  I  know  you 
won't  approve.  Perhaps  the  child  really  will  justify 
its  existence;  but  can  it  with  such  a  father? 

"I'm  beginning  to  get  a  little  of  the  atmosphere 
and  spirit  of  this  dear,  wonderful  place.  Really, 
there  are  a  great  many  things  that  would  interest 
you  about  it.  It  is  an  important  industrial  centre, 
though  not  so  strong  and  potent  in  the  affairs  of 
Italy  as  once  it  was.  The  river  would  interest  you  — 
not  so  much  the  fish,  which  are  rather  small  and 
feeble,  as  a  rule  —  but  the  way  it  brings  work  and 
money  to  the  poor  of  Florence.  They  are  always 
fetching  up  sand  and  stones  from  it,  and  the  supply 
is  renewed  by  every  flood  from  the  mountains.  Then 
they  go  out  in  boats  and  collect  the  deposits  of  the 
river,  for  which  there  is  a  ceaseless  demand ;  and  in 
old  time  the  Arno  was  the  great  artery  of  trade,  too. 
Timber  came  down  it  in  rafts,  and  little  vessels  plied 
for  many  a  mile,  even  to  the  sea.  The  vanished  folk 
actually  invented  a  saint,  called  Gorgone,  and  in- 
voked his  protection  at  the  most  dangerous  rapids 
and  gorges  where  they  worked. 

**  Firenze  simply  pulses  with  the  new  born  out  of 
the  old.  Its  present  is  linked  closely  to  its  beautiful 
past. 

"  I  think,  though  you  have  never  taken  pictures 
very  seriousl}^  you  would  do  so  out  here.     Pictures 


198  THE  JOY  OF  YOUTH 

creep  into  your  life  after  a  time,  if  you  care  for  them. 
There  are  pictures  here  —  the  ones  I  love  best  of  all 
—  that  I  go  to  see  all  alone  sometimes ;  and  they  talk 
to  me  —  they  really  do!  I  suppose  that  is  what  you 
feel  when  you  go  to  church. 

"I'm  just  dimly  beginning  to  realise  what  Italian 
means.  It  is  a  most  wonderful  tongue,  and  the  Tus- 
can Italian  is  the  most  glorious  live  language  in  the 
world  to-day  —  for  subtlety  and  music  and  power  to 
express  the  shadow  of  a  shade  of  meaning.  But  no 
foreigner  ever  fathoms  it,  and  only  poets  and  artists 
of  words  can  even  sound  the  stops  of  the  wonderful 
organ.  There  are  people  here,  Bertram  tells  me,  who 
take  the  same  delight  in  a  phrase,  or  a  perfect  jewel 
of  words  fitted  together,  as  you  would  in  a  good  right 
and  left  with  the  partridges.  Italians  think  Eng- 
lish rather  a  lumbering  language,  though  "well  enough 
suited  to  our  lumbering  nation.  I  struggle  away  at 
the  beginnings  and  my  teacher  is  very  patient  and 
a  splendid  linguist. 

''  And  now  I  must  stop  before  I  bore  you  to  death. 

**  We  shall  be  here  for  ages  yet,  thank  goodness; 
and  then  Stella  wants  to  go  to  the  Italian  Lakes,  and 
Annette  to  the  Swiss  ones,  so  I  don't  know  what  will 
happen.     Of  course,  I  vote  for  Como  or  Maggiore. 

"  Your  devoted 

"  Loved  AY. 

"  P.  S. —  We  visited  Bertram's  studio  a  few  days 
ago.  It  was  most  interesting.  He  is  a  tremendous 
worker,  and  has  wonderful  ideas.  He  says  that  every 
picture  ought  to  have  an  idea.  He  did  a  jolly  head 
of  me  —  all  green  and  blue  and  purple  and  myste- 
rious, with  fireflies  dancing  round  it  —  far  too  lovely 


LOVEDAY  TO  RALEGH        199 

for  me.  You  ought  to  buy  it !  He  calls  it  *  Madonna 
delle  Lucciole.'  Get  Nina  to  translate  that  for 
you!  " 


CHAPTER  XXII 

ANDREA  d'aGNOLO 

Florence  basked  in  the  sunshine  of  afternoon,  and 
the  domes  of  her  churches,  swinging  round  in  a  semi- 
circle from  San  Spirito  to  the  Cathedral,  carried  up 
the  russet  of  a  thousand  roofs  into  the  sky  upon  their 
orbs.  Thunderclouds  hung  heavy  over  Fiesole  and 
cast  a  darkness  there,  but  all  else  to  the  distant  hills 
was  full  of  light.  Behind  IMonte  Morello  a  pillar  of 
silver  cloud  ascended,  and  the  slr^  shone  very  blue. 

A  little  open  chamber,  perched  amid  the  housetops 
opposite  the  uplifted  platform  of  the  Pitti,  was 
painted  blue  also,  so  that  it  brought  the  sky  colour 
with  heightened  tone  down  into  the  midst  of  the  burn- 
ing roofs  that  sloped  away  round  about. 

Loveday  and  Bertram  stood  on  the  loggia  of  the 
Pitti  to  rest  their  eyes  before  returning  to  del  Sarto, 
for  the  day  was  sacred  to  that  master.  The  morning 
had  been  spent  with  him  at  the  Uffizi;  and  since 
Bertram  had  decided  that  afternoon  was  the  right 
and  proper  time  to  see  him  there,  they  had  come, 
knowing  no  need  of  rest  or  siesta. 

"  They  say  he  hasn't  a  soul,  and  belongs  to  the 
second-rates,"  declared  the  artist;  "  I  say  that  he's 
the  most  perfect,  pure  painter  we  know,  and  nearer 
the  Greeks  than  any  of  them;  and  Browning  said 
he  was  perfect,  too.     I  don't  like  Browning's  poem, 


ANDREA  D'AGXOLO  201 

all  the  same.  Andrea  may  not  have  been  a  great 
man,  and  he  may  have  wrecked  himself  for  the  sake 
of  that  rag,  his  wife ;  but  how  many  artists  are  great 
men?     Was  Raphael?     Was  Botticelli?  " 

*'  To  be  a  great  artist  is  to  be  a  great  man^"  she 
declared ;  but  he  would  not  grant  it. 

*'  You  often  gather  grapes  from  thorns  and  figs 
from  thistles  where  art  is  born ;  he  was  a  weak  spirit ; 
but  a  mighty  painter.  And  if  he'd  married  an  angel 
instead  of  a  harlot,  it  wouldn't  have  made  any  dif- 
ference to  his  art.     The  oil  decides  the  flame." 

*'  But,"  Loveday  said,  "  a  flame  can  burn  better 
and  brighter  in  pure  air  than  foul," 

He  could  not  answer  that. 

"  Anyway,  his  great  pictures  deserve  to  rank  with 
the  best  in  the  world  as  painting, ' '  he  declared ;  ' '  and 
the  Madonna  of  the  Harpies  —  it  didn't  want  them 
to  link  him  to  the  Greeks  —  is  the  picture  that  I 
would  first  have  in  all  Firenze.  And  as  to  soul  —  if 
he  had  no  more  interest  in  souls  than  Apelles,  why 
the  deuce  should  he  bother  about  them,  or  pretend  he 
had?  His  wretched  wife  hadn't  a  soul,  and,  rightly 
or  wrongly,  he  chose  her  for  his  fountain  of  beauty, 
so  there's  no  more  to  be  said." 

He  pointed  out  the  *'  Dispute,"  his  favourite  "  As- 
sumption," and  the  "  Deposition,"  The  last  he 
ranked  with  the  Uffizi  Madonna  for  greatness;  then 
he  wearied  Loveday  with  his  opinions,  and,  finding 
that  he  had  done  so,  amused  her. 

"  Come  and  see  a  Holy  Family  by  Bronzino,"  he 
said.  "  It's  very  interesting,  because  the  Blessed 
Mother  was  evidently  painted  from  a  statue  —  even 
to  her  hair.     But  the  great  thing  in  it  is  the  Sleeping 


202  THE  JOY  OF  YOUTH 

Christ  —  a  fine  baby.  If  ever  I  am  a  father,  I  shall 
want  such  another  as  that." 

"  And  his  dear  little  toes  curl  over  each  other,  just 
like  a  real  baby !  ' '  said  Loveday,  as  she  regarded  the 
picture. 

They  admired  the  adorable  child;  then  a  thought 
entered  her  mind,  and  as  she  looked  at  Bert- 
ram's dark  skin  and  flashing  eyes,  she  laughed  to  her- 
self. 

"  If  ever  you  had  a  baby  son,  he'd  not  be  such  a 
fair,  starry,  creamy  little  joy  as  this,"  she  said. 
''He'd  be  like  — I'll  show  you—" 

She  led  him  elsewhere,  then  dropped  him  the  ghost 
of  a  curtsy,  and  pointed  to  Caravaggio's  Slumbering 
Cupid  —  the  brown  Love  with  a  Puck  nose  and 
plump  body,  who  sleeps  soundly  as  ever  baby  slept, 
upon  the  downy  concave  of  his  own  grey  wing. 

* '  What  a  live  little  wretch  —  you  can  hear  him 
snore,"  cried  Bertram.  *'  And  what  a  gem  of  a  pic- 
ture. Well  done,  Lombardy!  It's  a  masterpiece  of 
chiaroscuro  —  a  glorious  baby  —  one  of  the  elect. '  * 

*'  A  little  black  pig  compared  to  the  other,"  de- 
clared Loveday. 

'*  And  you  think,  if  I  ever  had  a  son,  he'd  be  like 
that?  " 

*'  He  would,"  she  assured  him.  "  Of  course,  he'd 
grow  up  handsome,  and  very  likely  win  the  Inter- 
'Varsity  hundred  yards  some  day,  which  his  father 
couldn't  do;  but  he'd  begin  like  that  —  without  the 
wings." 

"  But  his  nose.  No  son  of  mine  could  possibly 
have  such  a  nose,"  he  pleaded. 

**  He  might  —  he  really  might,"  she  assured  him. 


ANDREA  D'AGNOLO  203 

**  The  noses  of  children  are  most  weird  and  puzzling. 
You  never  know  how  they're  going  to  happen." 

"  Come  and  sit  down  and  talk  for  ten  minutes  be- 
fore they  turn  us  out.  I  shan't  marry  —  never.  My 
child  must  be  a  love  child,  like  Leonardo  or  Giorgione 
—  and  move  among  fine  people  on  the  strength  of  his 
father.  It's  a  fool's  trick  to  marry,  and  the  biggest 
fool's  trick  of  all  is  to  marry  a  handsome  woman; 
and,  of  course,  I  couldn't  marry  any  other  sort,  so 
there's  an  end  of  it." 

"  What's  the  matter  with  a  handsome  woman  for 
a  wife?  "  she  asked. 

* '  You  're  naturally  interested ;  and  I  '11  break  it 
to  you  gently  that  everything's  the  matter  with  her. 
She  is  always  the  most  jealous,  and  the  hardest  to 
please,  and  the  cruellest.  A  pretty  woman  is  like 
a  rich  one:  she  never  learns  the  truth  about  men. 
It's  hidden  from  her.  Beauty  is  a  veil  that  comes 
between  her  and  reality,  and  transforms  men  in  the 
eyes  of  the  beautiful.  So  the  poor,  lovely  wretches 
have  to  take  us  on  faith;  and  the  result  naturally 
sours  them.  They  are  shocked  when  they  find  that 
the  male  desire  for  novelty  is  no  respecter  of  persons, 
and  a  pretty  woman  wears  no  better  than  a  plain  one. 
Not  as  well,  as  a  rule,  because  she,  trusting  to  her 
beauty,  has  never  bothered  about  the  things  that  do 
wear,  A  beauty  may  reign  a  reasonable  time  for 
men;  but  she  won't  wear  for  the  man  that's  won  her. 
She  must  charm  or  resign,  and  it's  a  curious  and  dis- 
mal fact  that  a  lovely  woman  whose  charms  are  more 
than  skin-deep  is  very  rare.  The  converse  holds  true. 
Don't  let  any  sane  woman  marry  the  handsome  man 
who  is  going  about  selling  his  fine  carcase  in  the  best 


204         THE  JOY  OF  YOUTH 

market.  She'll  rue  it  as  surely  as  she  does  it;  for 
that  sort  of  male  is  generally  tinkling  brass." 

**  Are  there  no  exceptions?  "  asked  Loveday, 

**  An  exception  asks  the  question.  You'll  charm 
the  vanished  Vanes  when  your  turn  comes  for  a 
corner  in  the  family  vault.  You'll  go  among  them 
like  Circe  among  the  swine,  and  enchant  their  dusty 
bones  till  they  rattle  round  you  and  terrify  the  be- 
lated traveller  as  he  wends  through  the  churchyard! 
But  you're  the  phoenix,  the  pearl  of  price;  and  you're 
already  bespoken  for  the  master  jewel  in  the  crown 
of  a  noble  knight.  There  is  not  such  another  as  you. 
So  I  must  go  my  way  and  gather  my  roses  where  I 
can,  and  drop  them  when  they  wither," 

"  Rubbish!  " 

"So  it  is.  My  wife  is  Art,  and,  as  a  matter  of 
fact,  if  a  man's  a  real  artist  his  Mdfe  can  be  only  a 
mistress,  as  Lady  Dangerfield  said." 

She  shuddered,  while  he  talked  on  recklessly  to 
shock  her;  but  presently  she  caught  him  up, 

"  You  speak  as  if  there  was  no  such  thing  as  sin 
in  the  world,"  she  said, 

"  And  what  then?  What  is  sin?  A  stone  flung 
at  the  strong  by  the  weak  —  flung  from  behind, 
D'you  think  I  recognise  sin?  Good  heavens!  where 
would  it  land  me?  In  the  bogs  of  remorse  and  the 
quicksands  of  regret  and  all  sorts  of  other  sticky 
places.  There  was  no  sin  in  Greece  till  Plato  came 
with  his  '  making  life  one  long  study  for  death  ' — 
death,  the  thing  that  doesn't  want  a  thought  till  it 
comes!  I  hate  Plato.  He  was  a  traitor  to  Greece. 
He  discovered  the  soul,  and  invented  a  hell  for  it. 
He    makes    thought    morbid    and    love    disgusting. 


ANDREA  D'AGNOLO  205 

He  was  a  Christian  before  Christ.  Sin's  an  impure 
human  invention ;  but  strangle  your  mother-taught 
conscience,  and  you'll  soon  settle  sin.  Let  the  clean 
past  guide  you  there,  not  the  mean  present  —  the  past 
and  your  own  heart,  the  heart  that  Nature  put  under 
your  ribs  and  that  Christianity  calls  desperately 
wicked.  Look  to  those  whose  hearts  beat  right,  and 
they'll  tell  you  that  they  know  crime  and  passion  and 
wrath  and  hatred  and  vengeance  and  love  —  but  not 
sin.  That's  a  thing  spawned  out  of  Christianity  — 
to  make  men  all  equal  in  the  sight  of  God  —  the  God 
who  made  all  men  unequal !  Turn  the  gleam  of  phi- 
losophy on  to  sin,  and  you'll  find  it  vanishes  like  a 
Jack-o'-lantern  at  the  first  chill  touch  of  morning," 
he  asserted. 

"  You're  past  praying  for,"  she  said. 

"  I  wish  you  were  past  praying,"  he  answered. 

There  was  a  pause,  and  Loveday  spoke  again: 

**  If  I  believed  half  you  say  to  me,  or  if  I  believed 
that  you  believed  it,  I  should  grow  very  unhappy.  I 
wonder  who  has  to  answer  for  it,  your  father  or  your 
mother?  " 

"  Schopenhauer  says  that  character  comes  from  the 
father,  brains  from  the  mother;  and  though  I  dare- 
say the  modern  experts  in  heredity  have  exploded 
that,  it's  true  in  my  case.  But,  after  all,  you  can't 
sort  out  the  heap  that  goes  to  make  character  and 
portion  out  the  praise  and  blame." 

"  One's  character  is  a  sort  of  Pandora's  box," 
suggested  Loveday. 

**  Yes,"  he  answered,  ''  and  you  are  a  lucky  man 
or  woman  if,  after  you've  rummaged  your  character 
to  the  bottom  and  found  what  is  good  and  what  is 


206  THE  JOY  OF  YOUTH 

rubbish,  you  can  still  come  across  a  gleam  of  hope  in 
your  inheritance." 

"  Then  I'm  one  of  the  lucky  ones;  and  so  are  you," 
she  answered. 

'*  So  far.  But  you're  only  twenty-two,  or  some 
ridiculous  age,  and  I'm  not  quite  twenty-seven.  Is 
the  hope  merely  gilt  or  gold?  How  many  hope  any- 
thing after  they're  forty?  " 

"  Forty's  nothing,"  declared  Loveday.  "  Adam 
Fry's  still  hoping  at  seventy.  Now  they're  coming 
to  turn  us  out,  so  let  us  go  and  have  some  tea.  I've 
promised  to  meet  Stella  and  Annette." 

But  he  would  not. 

"  They  think  you  see  too  much  of  me  as  it  is," 
he  told  her;  "  I  read  it  in  their  accusing  eyes." 


CHAPTER  XXIII 

ralegh  to  loveday 

**  Vanestowe, 
"  Chudleigh, 
"  Devon. 
*'  My  Dearest  Lovejoy, — 

"  I  appreciate  your  picturesque  descriptions 
of  Florence,  and  am  glad  the  place  awakens  such  inter- 
est and  pleasure  in  you. 

' '  There  is  no  doubt  that  much  you  say  is  just,  and 
that  it  is  the  English  passion  for  criticising  that 
often  gets  us  into  trouble.  We  have  to  consider  that, 
as  you  have  the  sense  to  do. 

"  There  is  no  objection,  I  suppose,  to  your  calling 
Dangerfield  by  his  Christian  name,  though  neither 
was  there  any  necessity  that  I  can  see.  You  will 
know  what  line  to  take  in  your  relations  with  him. 
The  man  is  an  outsider  —  to  say  it  not  unkindly. 
I  mean  that  he  has  thrown  in  his  lot  with  another 
order  than  his  own,  and  devoted  himself  to  other 
work  than  would  have  been  considered  proper  to  his 
social  rank  a  few  generations  ago.  But  no  doubt  I 
am  old-fashioned  in  my  feeling  that  the  learned  pro- 
fessions ought  to  have  claimed  him.  He  is  the  first 
Dangerfield  that  one  has  heard  of  outside  the  Serv- 
ices or  the  Church. 

"  Life  goes  on  steadily  here,  and  there  is  hope  of  a 


208  THE  JOY  OF  YOUTH 

good  hay  harvest.  I  am  letting  them  have  the  Lower 
Glebe  for  the  Agricultural  Show  this  year.  The 
concession  has  given  a  good  deal  of  satisfaction,  and, 
I  hope,  may  help  to  improve  relations  in  some  direc- 
tions. It  was  the  idea  of  Ross,  and  my  mother 
frankly  disliked  it;  but  I  am  glad  to  say  she  is  no 
longer  averse  to  the  plan. 

*'  One  cannot  look  round  with  thoughtful  eyes  and 
not  feel  that  great  changes  threaten  England.  We 
have  given  the  people  education,  and  I  fear,  for  some 
years  to  come,  that  they  will  find  the  gift  a  two-edged 
sword  and  wound  themselves  as  often  as  they  wound 
us.  There  is  no  doubt  in  my  pind  that  the  ideal 
form  of  Government  is  a  benevolent  autocracy,  i.  e. 
Government  for  the  people  —  not  by  the  people,  but 
by  a  sympathetic  aristocracy  moving  on  a  plane  of 
high  tradition  and  animated  by  sympathy  and  im- 
agination. 

"  But  the  proletariat  cares  not  for  high  tradition, 
and  it  rejects  and  distrusts  our  sympathy.  It  turns 
to  its  own  demagogues,  and  they  —  I  do  not  judge 
their  motives  —  spurn  tradition,  open  the  sluices,  and 
are  in  most  unseemly  haste  to  remove  their  neigh- 
bours' landmarks  and  ignore  the  difference  between 
meum  and  tuum. 

"  In  the  darkness  it  is  a  source  of  consolation  to 
me  that  the  revolution  will  be  bloodless.  Providence, 
in  Whom  I  trust  absolutely,  will  order  things  for  the 
best  from  a  standpoint  veiled  in  clouds  beyond  the 
mind  of  man  to  reach.  But  while  granting  that  right 
will  happen,  because  a  good  and  just  God  is  respon- 
sible for  the  progress  of  human  affairs,  we  must  not 
be  supine,  nor  neglect  to  advance  our  own  convictions. 


RALEGH  TO  LOVEDAY        209 

nor  cease  to  labour  for  what  we  believe  to  be  the  right 
line  of  progress  and  amelioration.  God  helps  those 
who  help  themselves.  Life  is  profoundly  interesting; 
but  to  us,  of  the  old  brigade,  it  is  also  very  sad,  for 
much  is  happening  that  runs  counter  to  our  inherited 
beliefs  and  opinions.  I  see  men  of  birth  around  me, 
the  very  blood  in  whose  veins  is  running  sour  under 
these  disabilities  —  temperate  men  becoming  intem- 
perate; logical  men  becoming  illogical;  religious  men 
beginning  to  doubt  whether  this  is  indeed  the  best 
of  all  possible  worlds.  A  sitting  of  Parliament  nowa- 
days still  begins  with  prayers;  but  how  often  it  ends 
with  curses! 

"  On  the  Bench  one  sees  many  a  glimpse  of  the 
bitter  class  prejudice  now  spreading  like  a  poisonous 
germ  into  the  hearts  of  the  poor.  A  man  ten  days 
ago  flung  his  boot  at  me  from  the  dock  after  I  had 
sentenced  him  to  a  week  of  imprisonment  for  break- 
ing Farmer  Burdon's  hedges  and  stealing  roots  of 
fern  and  primrose.  I  caught  the  boot  rather  neatly 
and  quite  disarmed  the  rascal.  He  was  the  first  to 
applaud  the  catch;  and  yesterday  he  came  to  me  for 
work ! 

"  Your  uncle  is  in  London.  He  is  in  great  trouble 
over  Welsh  Disestablishment,  and  the  Navy,  and 
Germany.  He  is  walking  in  public  processions  to 
protest  against  the  Government's  actions.  Patrick 
Spedding  is  in  Ireland  fishing,  and  Nina  is  at  home. 
She  is  a  sensitive  woman  and  a  thinker.  She  feels 
that  in  the  storm  and  stress  of  modern  life  religion 
becomes  more  and  more  the  one  sole  thing  to  trust 
to  and  cling  to.  And  I  am  by  no  means  sure  that 
she  is  not  right.     Bui  there  is  a  strong  drift  away 


210  THE  JOY  OF  YOUTH 

from  the  old  simple  faith  of  our  fathers.  One  sees 
it  everywhere  —  education  again.  Nine  parish  school- 
masters out  of  ten  are  agnostics;  but  they  dare  not 
say  so  —  yet.  They  wait  impatiently  for  the  passing 
of  an  Education  Bill  that  will  free  them  from  the 
need  of  prevarication.  No  doubt  when  State  and 
Church  part  company,  which  is  only  a  question  of 
time,  the  real  value  and  strength  of  the  latter  will 
appear.  At  present  the  Church  cringes  in  a  way  I 
much  deplore.  As  you  know,  I  am  strongly  against 
Disendowment ;  but  I  have  reluctantly  begun  to  sus- 
pect that  Disestablishment  will  advance  human  prog- 
ress not  a  little  and  really  help  the  Church  to  stand 
alone.  There  is  a  great  lack  of  dignity  in  Its  rela- 
tions with  the  State  at  present.  There  is  a  lot  of 
humbug  about  the  whole  thing,  and  responsible, 
agnostic  statesmen  (the  only  statesmen  who  count  in 
the  least  are  agnostics  at  heart  unfortunately)  must 
secretly  despise  the  attitude  of  the  leaders  of  the 
Church  in  their  make-the-best-of-both-worlds  policy. 
We  sportsmen  believe  that  one  cannot  run  with  the 
hare  and  hunt  with  the  hounds;  but  it  is  the  busi- 
ness of  diplomatists  to  do  so;  and  I  suppose  the 
Church  congratulates  itself  on  the  skill  with  which 
it  is  managing  this  difficult  feat.  There  is,  however, 
a  fearful  spiritual  danger,  and  we  are  losing  our  ad- 
herents in  the  country  as  well  as  the  town. 

"  Lady  Dangerfield  is  back  from  Torquay.  Her 
portrait  was  mentioned  in  The  Times  and  in  The 
AtheTKEum  as  a  work  of  great  merit.  She  pretends 
not  to  care  a  rap,  but  is  secretly  very  gratified,  I 
think. 

*'  Mr.  Wicks,  the  dentist,  has  returned  to  Exeter, 


RALEGH  TO  LOVEDAY       211 

and  Lady  Dangerfield  has  set  the  fashion  and  is  his 
patient  again.  Do  not  visit  Mrs.  Forbes,  please, 
Loveday.  I  don't  want  to  be  im-Christian  or  un- 
reasonable; and  if  you  desire  to  argue  about  it,  we 
can  do  so  on  your  return  home.  For  the  moment, 
since  you  do  not  refuse  a  measure  of  obedience  to 
your  Ralegh,  let  it  be  enough  that  I  ask  you  not  to 
visit  her. 

"  I  am  hoping  that  it  will  not  be  very  long  now 
before  we  hear  of  a  date  for  your  return. 

"  Give  my  kind  regards  to  your  friends,  the  Misses 
Neill-Savage,  and  — 

"  Believe  me,  dearest  Loveday, 

*'  Affectionately  and  always  yours, 

"  Ralegh  Vane.'* 


CHAPTER  XXIV 

THE  VELVET   FISH 

Bertram  Dangerfield  was  very  thorough  with  his 
pupil.  He  took  her  all  the  way  to  a  royal  villa  at 
Poggio  that  she  might  see  one  figure  of  Andrea's  in 
a  fresco.  There,  too,  he  showed  her  works  of  Pon- 
tormo,  and  revealed  certain  mannerisms  of  drawing 
in  the  rotundity  of  the  human  calf  that  impressed 
themselves  on  her  memory  for  ever. 

Once,  to  give  her  joy,  he  took  her  to  a  famous 
garden  of  many  acres,  many  statues,  many  marble 
fountains.  The  place  was  formal,  severe,  and  beauti- 
ful. Rows  of  orange  and  lemon  trees  in  gigantic 
earthen  pots  flanked  the  pathways,  to  flash  their  fruit 
and  spread  their  fragrance  together.  There  were 
bronzes  and  dainty  Loves  by  Bologna  at  the  foun- 
tains; and  other  water  there  was  —  green  as  summer 
Arno  —  wherein  white  water-lilies  blossomed,  and  a 
mighty  fish,  that  looked  as  if  he  was  made  of  black 
velvet,  sailed  solemnly  about  with  a  little,  admiring 
train  of  golden  carp  swimming  after  him.  The  great 
gardens  were  starred  with  statues  and  alive  with  roses 
and  brilliant  flowers.  It  was  Loveday's  hour,  for 
she  knew  the  name  of  everything,  and  Bertram  knew 
the  name  of  nothing. 

"  For  once,"  she  said,  "I'm  teaching  you  a  little, 
though  'tis  only  the  dull,  Latin  names  of  lovely 
things." 


THE  VELVET  FISH  213 

"  When  I  was  a  youngster  I  worried  my  nurse  to 
tell  me  God's  own  name  for  the  flowers.  I  never 
could  believe  she  didn't  know.  The  cypress  and  the 
rose  are  all  the  names  I  can  tell.  What  is  this  on  the 
wall,  making  a  feathery  silver  pattern,  and  growing 
on  nothing  but  bricks  and  mortar  apparently?  Ah! 
You  don't  know." 

*'  Capparis,"  she  said,  proudly.  *'  Ask  the  gar- 
deners if  you  think  I'm  inventing." 

They  played  like  a  brace  of  children,  and  the 
painter  declared  himself  to  be  Adam  giving  new 
names  to  the  growing  things. 

"  Henceforth,"  he  said,  "  your  vittadenia  shall  be 
called  '  Lovedaisies, '  and  belong  to  you." 

"  What  a  mean  little  flower  to  give  to  me,"  she 
grumbled.  "  Still,  the  mighty  Linnasus  took  a  tinier 
for  his  own." 

Then  they  found  a  white  rose  with  a  green  beetle, 
like  a  live  emerald,  eating  its  heart  out,  and  Bertram 
declared  that  a  sonnet  must  be  made  on  this  fine 
theme. 

"  I  know  you've  written  a  score  of  verses  since  you 
came  here,"  he  said.  "  No  woman  with  your  educa- 
tion and  your  eyes  ever  lived  to  be  your  age  without 
making  poetry.  And  I'm  twenty-seven  on  the  third 
of  next  June,  so  nothing  more  need  be  added.  I  love 
birthday  presents." 

"  The  Neill-Savages  begin  to  talk  of  going,"  she 
murmured;  but  he  would  not  hear  of  it. 

"  Don't  be  ridiculous.  You're  here  to  learn 
Italian  and  get  a  nodding  acquaintance  with  the  pic- 
tures. You're  a  sun-loving  lizard  of  a  girl,  and  never 
too  hot,  so  there 's  no  excuse  for  your  going  for  ages. ' ' 


214  THE  JOY  OF  YOUTH 

"What  about  Ralegh?  " 

"  Your  happiness  is  his.  And  he  knows  you  are 
in  good  hands." 

She  considered. 

"  He  was  cross  in  his  last  letter  because  I  went  to 
dine  with  Una  Forbes  and  took  you." 

"  Sorry." 

**  You  never  told  me  what  you  thought  of  her?  " 

**  One  naturally  thought  more  of  Forbes.  The 
future  is  exceedingly  dark  for  him,  in  my  opinion. 
He'll  really  have  to  practise  all  the  virtues  that  she 
gives  him  credit  for,  and  a  few  others.  How  would 
it  be  if  we  sent  him  the  Life  and  Opinions  of  that 
excellent  man,  Marcus  Antoninus?  They  might 
sustain  him." 

"  I  shall  go  and  see  Mrs.  Faustina  Forbes,  all  the 
same,"  said  Loveday.  "  Ralegh  doesn't  know  what 
a  difference  Italy  makes." 

He  laughed. 

**  They  are  not  going  home  for  a  year  at  least,  she 
told  me." 

"  How  did  you  like  her?  "  asked  she. 

**  An  elderly  Bacchante  isn't  wildly  exciting;  but 
she  was  very  interesting.  Under  that  torrent  of  in- 
genuous chatter  —  it  isn't  ingenuous  really  —  it's 
art  of  a  sort  —  she  is  wide  awake  —  hunting." 

"  Hunting,  Bertram?  " 

"  Rather.  A  keen,  swift  huntress.  She's  always 
had  men  in  her  larder,  that  woman,  though  probably 
her  husband  was  not  aware  of  it,  till  she  let  herself 
go  and  brought  the  dentist  out  here." 

"  Men  in  her  larder!  " 

"  Yes  —  in  all  stages,  some  a  little  high,  gamey, 


THE  VELVET  FISH  215 

going  off  —  though  they  don't  know  it,  of  course. 
And  some  in  perfect  condition  for  immediate  con- 
sumption; and  some  coming  on  quietly,  the  better 
for  hanging  a  little  longer. ' ' 

* '  And  are  you  going  to  be  one  of  them  ?  ' ' 

"I!  I  don't  hang  in  any  woman's  larder;  they 
hang  in  mine." 

*'  Do  they?  " 

* '  Good  Lord,  no ;  not  really !  I  only  said  it  to  see 
how  you'd  look." 

"  I  expect  she's  had  enough  adventures  now,  and 
is  going  to  be  good,"  said  Loveday. 

He  smiled,  and  misquoted  Villon: 

**  'For  she  that  loved  but  once  erewhen, 
Soon  tires  of  him  to  her  that  fell, 
And  sets  herself  to  love  all  men. 
What  moves  her  thus?     I  do  opine. 
Without  her  honour  gainsaying. 
That  'tis  her  nature  feminine. 
Which  tends  to  cherish  everything.' 

That's  it,  eh,  Lioveday?  Good,  or  bad,  or  neither, 
she's  going  to  be  herself  —  as  everybody  is,  having 
just  the  same  amount  of  free  will  as  you  and  I,  which 
is  exactly  none." 

"  Free  will  has  not  gone,  I  tell  you." 

*  *  No,  it  hasn  't  gone  —  because  it  never  came.  It 's 
only  a  name  for  something  that  never  existed  —  like 
the  hippogriffs  of  your  future  coat-of-arms.  Nature 
controls  the  machine  that  she  has  made  in  every  par- 
ticular. The  machine  is  not  responsible.  A  piano 
can't  play  in  tune  if  it  is  out  of  tune.  It  can't  play 
out  of  tune  if  it  is  in  tune." 


216  THE  JOY  OF  YOUTH 

"  But  a  clock  may  get  out  of  order,"  she  argued, 
and  he  admitted  it. 

*'  Agreed.  And  everybody  who  had  free  will 
would  be  out  of  order  in  exactly  the  same  way  —  just 
as  much  out  of  order  as  a  man  who  breaks  the  rules 
of  the  House  of  Commons.  Wliile  we  play  the  game 
of  life,  we  've  got  to  keep  the  rules,  and  free  will  isn  't 
one  of  them." 

"  I  believe  in  it,  all  the  same,"  she  said.  **  I'm 
doing  what  I  like  in  a  most  magical  way  here.  Free- 
dom isn't  the  word  for  it.  My  body's  free  and  my 
mind's  free  and  my  soul's  free,  and  I  think  about 
people  and  face  actions  and  consider  things"  in  general 
in  a  way  I  should  simply  have  died  to  do  a  few 
months  ago.     No  doubt  I  have  you  to  thank  for  it." 

' '  Not  me  —  Italy.  I  'm  not  making  you  see  things 
differently.  It's  the  adventure  of  your  soul  in  a  new 
country.  Nothing  whatever  to  do  with  free  will. 
You  were  ripe  grain  waiting  for  the  sun  of  Italy  to 
make  you  sprout.  All  the  possibilities  were  lying 
there  —  dormant.  And  don 't  think  you  '11  ever  be 
what  you  were  before  you  came  here,  because  you 
never  will." 

**  I  never  want  to  be.  What  was  the  good  of  com- 
ing if  I  was  just  going  to  shrink  back  into  my  old 
self  again." 

''  But  Sir  Ralegh?  " 

"  He'll  rejoice  to  find  how  much  larger  minded  I 
am,  and  cosmopolitan  and  tolerant,  and  so  on." 

* '  You  say  so ;  but  your  voice  shakes  —  just  a  little 
tremble  before  the  high  note.  It  always  does  when 
you  are  telling  a  fib.  I've  often  noticed  it.  It's 
rather  interesting,  because  most  people's  eyes  give 


THE  VELVET  FISH  217 

them  away  when  they're  lying;  but  your  voice  be- 
trays you.  No,  you  know  very  well  he  didn't  let  you 
come  out  here  to  change.  And  if  he  knew  how  you 
had  changed,  and  how  this  place  has  just  been  the 
touchstone  to  your  real  nature,  then  he'd — " 

**  Be  quiet!  "  she  said,  "  and  mind  your  own  busi- 
ness. You're  horrid  sometimes,  and  very  ungentle- 
manly,  too,  though  you  think  that's  a  thing  you  can't 
be.  You're  in  a  particularly  nasty  mood  to-day. 
And  there  is  free  will ;  and  you  've  no  earthly  right 
to  criticise  Hastings  Forbes,  or  me,  or  Ralegh." 

"  All  true,"  he  admitted,  ''  except  free  will.  I'll 
grant  the  rest.  Once  a  bounder,  always  a  bounder. 
You'll  never  reform  me.  If  there  were  free  will,  you 
might;  but,  as  things  are,  it  can't  be  done." 


CHAPTER  XXV 

**  SUNDAY  AT  HOME  " 

Italy  leaves  no  spirit  unchanged,  for  its  attack  is 
many-sided.  Loveday  Merton  found  herself  mightily 
moved  by  the  South,  and,  looking  backward,  it 
seemed  as  though  she  had  never  lived  till  now.  It 
is  impossible  to  exaggerate  the  effect  of  the  experi- 
ence on  her  healthy  and  receptive  intellect.  With 
open  hands  and  heart  she  had  come  to  Italy,  to  find 
it  exceed  all  dreams.  She  said  "  yea  "  to  it  daily, 
acknowledged  its  compelling  might,  discovered  that 
here  was  her  abiding-place,  the  goal  of  her  journey 
and  crown  of  all  her  vague  aspirations  and  longings. 
Nor  did  she  deny  Dangerfield  his  meed  in  the  trans- 
formation. She  told  herself  he  was  like  an  Italian 
wine,  that  must  be  drunk  in  its  own  country.  This 
was  his  country.  In  England  he  might  be  difficult, 
and  prove  too  unconventional  for  the  northern  at- 
mosphere; but  here  he  chimed  harmoniously  with  his 
environment  and  was  a  part  of  it. 

Italy  had  served  immensely  to  widen  her  outlook 
and  clear  her  mind ;  but  Bertram  was  the  incarnation 
of  the  new  experience,  and  now  she  set  herself  to 
measure  how  much  was  his  work  and  how  much  she 
owed  to  Florence.  That  everything  she  had  learned 
was  to  the  good,  and  that  nothing  but  benefit  had 


"  SUNDAY  AT  HOME  "        219 

accrued  from  her  great  expedition,  she  did  not  for  an 
instant  question.  But  when  it  came  to  holding  the 
scales  between  Italy  and  the  painter,  she  found  her- 
self powerless.  She  could  not  separate  the  two  forces 
nor  apportion  to  each  its  significance  in  her  education. 
In  truth,  the  man  was  the  more  responsible,  and  a 
time  approached  when  Loveday  would  realise  that 
fact ;  a  time  was  near  when  Italy 's  siren  voice  would 
sound  faint  and  thin  without  his  presence  to  echo 
it;  when  the  hot  sunshine  would  lack  something  of 
its  geniality  if  he  were  not  there  to  share  it.  But 
for  the  moment  she  supposed  that  the  accident  of  his 
company  only  added  to  the  inevitable  joy  that  Italy 
had  brought.  They  worked  on  together,  and  no  ray 
of  love  lit  the  workshop.  He,  indeed,  had  his  own 
axe  to  grind,  as  soon  she  learned ;  but  for  her  was 
only  the  glad  reception  and  grateful  recognition  of 
all  he  strove  to  teach  her.  She  did  not  love  him ;  she 
did  not  want  him  except  in  her  head.  Thus  she  as- 
sured herself,  yet  was  not  perhaps  absolutely  frank 
with  herself.  Indeed,  the  need  for  frankness  had  not 
yet  arisen,  and  the  natural  instinct  of  every  woman 
is  not  to  be  frank  with  herself,  if  the  necessity  can 
be  avoided.  Inarticulateness  is  a  common  condition 
of  the  human  mind,  and  as  many  lack  the  spoken 
words  to  shade  their  meaning  to  others,  so  most  lack 
the  thought  word  to  shade  their  meaning  to  them- 
selves. For  that  is  a  much  more  subtle  matter,  and 
many,  though  they  are  honestly  anxious  to  under- 
stand their  own  motives,  cannot  unravel  such  com- 
plexities. A  man's  conduct  often  puzzles  himself 
quite  as  much  as  it  puzzles  other  people;  and  though 
Loveday    was    not    puzzled    when    she    thought    of 


220         THE  JOY  OF  YOUTH 

Dangerfield,  jjuzzled  she  was  when  she  considered  her 
betrothed  and  herself. 

Bertram  on  his  part  felt  no  love  for  Loveday,  but 
an  increasing  interest.  He  was  not  working  for 
nothing;  but  he  only  served  one  mistress  at  present, 
and  for  her  did  he  labour  patiently.  He  had  a  secret 
ambition  with  respect  to  his  pupil,  and  trusted  that 
victory  might  reward  his  labours;  but  he  kept  an 
open  mind,  and  hoped  very  little  indeed.  Yet  her 
character  might  not  easily  be  read,  though  there  was 
an  element  of  such  good  nature  in  it,  and  Italy  had 
wrought  so  gigantically  Math  northern  prejudices  and 
instincts  that  he  could  not  choose  but  grow  slightly 
more  sanguine  when  she  was  happy  and  especially 
delightful.  Moreover,  she  had  ever  been  a  grate- 
ful girl,  and  seemed  unlikely  to  forget  her  obliga- 
tions. 

They  went  to  the  house  of  two  ladies  who  drew 
round  them  much  of  the  English  interest  of  Florence. 
Mrs.  Mackinder  and  her  daughter  entertained  all  who 
eared  to  come  on  Sunday  evenings,  and  Bertram  took 
Loveday  to  a  gathering  here,  that  she  might  be 
amused.  The  Mackinders  were  writing  a  book,  to  be 
called  The  Budding  of  the  Lily,  and  their  friends 
agreed  that  no  such  work  in  Florence  could  or  would 
ever  be  published  again.  They  were  a  plaintive,  ap- 
pealing, and  affectionate  pair  —  very  wealthy  and 
very  amiable.  Everybody  who  was  anybody  in 
Florence  had  promised  to  help  them  with  their  monu- 
mental work;  and  all  would  be  thanked,  blessed,  and 
rendered  immortal  in  the  preface. 

A  considerable  company  was  already  assembled  in 
the  great  *'  withdrawing-room  "  of  the  Mackinders. 


"  SUNDAY  AT  HOME  "        221 

They  always  called  it  that.  A  sub-acid  voice  greeted 
the  painter  as  he  appeared: 

* '  Ah !  here 's  Bertram  Dangerfield,  who 's  going  to 
set  the  Thames  on  fire !  ' ' 

He  answered  instantly: 

'  *  And  here 's  Noel  Browning  Hartley  —  who 
isn't!  " 

Mr.  Hartley  was  a  fair  youth  with  long  flaxen  hair, 
a  pince-nez,  and  watery  grey  eyes  behind  it.  There 
was  something  dimly  suggestive  of  vanished  time 
about  him  —  the  period  of  Victorian  sestheticism. 

*'  He  belongs  ridiculously  to  Du  Maurier  and 
Punch,"  whispered  Bertram  to  Loveday.  *'  He  prob- 
ably knows  more  about  Dante  than  most  people;  but 
not  as  much  as  many.  His  Italian  must  make  angels 
weep.  He  tries  to  be  medieval  in  his  speech,  and 
revive  obsolete  words.  He  says  that,  while  he  uses 
them,  no  word  is  obsolete.  He  knows  d'Annunzio, 
and  never  wants  to  kick  him." 

She  was  introduced  to  several  people,  and  found 
that  all  had  some  claim  to  distinction.  Some  painted ; 
some  criticised;  some  represented  journalism;  the 
least  had  written  brochures,  or  contributed  a  mite 
to  the  culture  of  the  coterie.  A  man  was  talking 
about  music,  in  a  voice  that  sounded  as  though  he 
were  not  accustomed  to  be  interrupted.  But  Bertram 
interrupted  him,  and  introduced  Loveday.  The  man 
was  heavily  bearded ;  by  which  kindly  act  of  Nature 
his  mouth  had  been  concealed.  Thus  the  observer 
was  constrained  to  fasten  on  his  fine  forehead  and 
intellectual  eyes. 

He  sat  with  several  women  round  him,  and  among 
them  was  Mrs.  Hastings  Forbes.    Una  had  won  the 


222  THE  JOY  OF  YOUTH 

Maekinders  a  little  crudely,  by  subscribing  for  ten 
copies  of  The  Budding  of  the  Lily  when  it  should 
appear.  And  here  she  was.  They  had  asked  her, 
but  they  lacked  the  courage  to  support  her  now  that 
she  had  come.  That,  however,  troubled  her  not  at 
all.  There  were  plenty  of  men  present;  and  where 
there  were  men  Una  knew  that  she  was  safe,  and 
could  be  happy  and  give  happiness. 

"Mr.  Felix  Fordyce  —  Miss  Merton,"  said  Ber- 
tram. **  Don't  stop,  Fordyce.  I  only  wanted  to  in- 
troduce my  friend  into  the  charmed  circle.  She  loves 
music. ' ' 

The  speaker  bowed,  and,  perceiving  Loveday  to  be 
very  fair,  spoke  graciously: 

*  *  People  are  so  kind  as  to  listen  to  me  —  Heaven 
knows  why.  We  were  talking  —  what  was  it?  Of 
tone  art.  It  has  been  said,  you  know,  that  poetry  and 
music  are  twins  —  Siamese  twins,  not  to  be  separated 
without  danger  to  them  both.  Herder  tells  us  that 
among  the  Greeks,  poetry  and  music  were  one  splen- 
dour of  human  mind.  Let  us  consider  that.  The 
Greeks,  of  course,  wove  poetry  and  music  into  their 
religion.  They  approached  their  gods  with  them, 
even  as  we  sing  to  our  God  still.  One  can  understand 
the  gods  of  Greece  liking  music.  Doubtless  it  had 
power  to  charm  their  savage  hearts.  That,  however, 
is  a  parenthesis.  Well,  then,  poetry  and  music  are 
the  father  and  mother  of  all  the  arts;  and  greater 
than  any  of  their  children.     Is  that  agreed?  " 

An  earnest  lady,  who  on  insufficient  data  thought 
Mr.  Fordyce  the  first  genius  of  Florence,  voiced  the 
rest,  and  said  they  were  all  of  one  mind  so  far. 

"  I  turn  sometimes  from  pictures  to  music,"  said 


"  SUNDAY  AT  HOME  "        223 

Loveday,  "  and  then  the  music  sends  me  back  hungry 
to  the  pictures," 

Mr.  Fordyce  approved  this  sentiment,  yet  in- 
dicated subtly  that  he  must  not  be  interrupted  again. 

"  All  art  should  drive  us  to  music,  just  as  all  art 
should  drive  a  man,  or  woman,  to  his,  or  her,  lover," 
he  declared,  looking  at  Mrs.  Forbes,  '*  Love  is  the 
dessert  at  the  banquet  of  art;  but  again  we  wander 
from  our  topic.  The  Latins,  as  I  may  remind  you, 
lost  the  significance  of  song  altogether.  They  de- 
scended to  the  lilt  of  the  pipe  and  neglected  the 
strings,  with  dreadful  results,  until  they  had  the  ir- 
rational absurdity  to  make  odes,  or  songs,  which  were 
not  written  to  be  sung." 

' '  What  nonsense !  ' '  ventured  Una,  whose  eyes 
were  fixed  on  the  speaker. 

"  Worse  than  nonsense,  dear  lady.  They  set  a 
fashion  —  a  dismal  fashion  that  still  survives.  Our 
poets  followed  their  ridiculous  example." 

Dangerfield  spoke. 

"  You  got  that  out  of  Signor  Naldini  last  Sunday," 
he  said ;  and  Mr.  Fordyce  laughed  and  shook  his  head. 

"  Run  away,  and  don't  interrupt  your  betters," 
he  replied. 

**  All  right.  Now  your  only  hope  is  to  explain 
that  you  were  first  and  Naldini  got  it  out  of  you." 

* '  A  delightful  man  —  even  a  genius, ' '  declared 
Mr.  Fordyce,  when  the  painter  was  beyond  earshot. 
"But  music  —  music.  Let  us  generalise.  I  shall 
probably  astonish  you  when  I  say  that  Europe  speaks 
not  the  only  word  on  the  subject.  Do  you  know 
what  I  mean  by  Asiatic  music?  Probably  the  tom- 
tom starts  to  your  recollection;  but  we  must  go  far 


224  THE  JOY  OF  YOUTH 

behind  the  tom-tom.  Asiatic  music  was  the  most 
amazing  tissue  of  Oriental  subtlety  that  it  is  possible 
to  conceive.  The  deep  mind  of  the  East  penetrated 
the  arcanum  of  music  —  be  sure  of  that ;  and  what 
was  the  result?  Asiatic  music  deliberately  com- 
mitted suicide,  using  for  its  weapon  an  impossible 
technique.  Years  ago  —  when  you  were  all  cutting 
your  teeth  on  corals  —  I  heard  a  Javanese  orchestra 
in  London.  Probably  not  a  dozen  Europeans  in 
London  understood  what  they  were  doing.  The 
Asiatic  ear  is  a  thousand  times  more  delicate  and  re- 
fined than  ours,  and  the  music  that  I  then  listened  to 
had  oozed  out  into  a  subtlety  so  tenuous  that,  like  a 
fountain  in  the  sand,  it  lost  itself.  The  Indian 
master  distinguished,  or  affected  to  distinguish,  nine 
hundred  and  sixty  keys!  If  he  had  heard  Wagner 
or  Strauss,  that  Indian  master  would  have  died,  like 
a  butterfly  in  a  lethal  chamber.  One  agonised  quiver 
of  his  exquisite  sensorium,  and  all  would  have  been 
over  with  him.  The  Greek,  however  —  always  ra- 
tional and  reasonable  —  must  have  found  his  account 
in  quite  another  sort  of  music.  Doubtless  his  instru- 
ments were  sonorous,  his  cadences  exceedingly  simple. 
It  is  safe  to  assert  that  the  music  of  his  tragedy  was 
profoundly  fitted  to  the  theme  and  the  occasion:  an 
accompaniment  to  the  voice,  but  with  the  voice  the 
prime  consideration.  To  kill  the  voice  with  any 
other  noise,  as  Wagner  does,  would  have  appeared  to 
your  Greek  the  very  height  of  ignorant  folly.  And 
so  it  appears  to  me.  We  shall  return  to  this  noble 
simplicity  some  day." 

"  I  love  orchestral  music  better  than  vocal,"  said 
Loveday.     "  Why  am  I  so  barbarous?  " 


"  SUNDAY  AT  PIOME  "        225 

"  You  open  a  difficult  subject:  the  whole  justifica- 
tion of  orchestral  music.  You  might  ask  whether 
this  is  not  music  strayed  away  from  its  proper  twin, 
poetry,  and  therefore  in  danger  of  destruction.  But 
I  say  that  such  music  is  poetry  —  poetry  itself  —  just 
as  the  singing  bird  is  poetry;  or  the  purring  tigress 
suckling  her  cubs  is  poetry;  or  the  girl,  who  just 
hums  melodiously  without  words,  at  her  work  of 
weaving  Tuscan  straw  before  a  cottage  portal,  is 
poetry.  So  that  you  should  love  orchestral  music 
best  is  not  a  barbarity,  young  lady.  Poetrj^  is  no 
mere  matter  of  words  on  a  page  —  I'm  sure  Danger- 
field  has  told  you  that.  For  he  understands  poetry, 
though  he  has  not  found  his  own  soul  yet.  No,  a 
symphony  of  Beethoven  is  as  pure  poetry  as  Shelley's 
*  Sensitive  Plant.'  Nay,  it  is  purer,  in  a  sense,  since 
melody  is  a  more  spiritual  medium  than  thought. ' ' 

Mr.  Fordyce  exhibited  fatigue,  and  Mrs.  Forbes, 
trusting  her  sure  genius  in  such  matters,  poured  out 
a  glass  of  iced  asti-cup  from  a  table  not  far  distant, 
and  brought  it  to  him  with  a  Hebe-like  gesture. 
The  other  ladies  hoped  that  the  speaker  would  decline 
the  cup;  but  he  did  not.  He  drank  with  gratitude, 
and  flashed  his  eyes  for  Mrs.  Forbes  alone. 

Elsewhere  a  man  in  spectacles  was  talking  to 
Dangerfield,  while  others  listened.  The  principal 
speaker  here  sat  on  a  sofa  with  Miss  Mackinder  by  his 
side.  They  were  betrothed,  and  he  was  painting  pic- 
tures for  The  Budding  of  the  Lily. 

Herr  Paul  Schmidt  was  a  German  —  learned  and 
large-minded,  but  he  lacked  humour.  He  spoke  per- 
fect English,  in  a  monotonous  voice. 

*'  The  Egyptian  against  the  Greek  is  the  battle  of 


226  THE  JOY  OF  YOUTH 

two  mighty  principles,"  he  said.  **  It  is  abstraction 
against  idealisation. ' ' 

"  Question,  question,"  cried  Noel  Hartley  and  the 
speaker  answered: 

* '  You  shall  question  when  I  have  spoken  —  if  a 
question  still  remains  to  put.  The  Egyptian,  taking 
what  he  considers  vital,  pre-eminent,  and  paramount, 
leaves  all  else  severely  alone;  the  Greek  glorifies  and 
shows  man,  not  as  he  is,  but  as  he  might  be  logically, 
if  physical  perfection  were  possible.  He  anticipates 
the  results  of  eugenics  and  unveils  superman  —  in 
marble.  That  way  is  life,  because  all  is  movement, 
striving,  searching ;  the  Egyptian  abstraction  is  death, 
because  there  is  no  movement,  no  strife,  and  no  quest. 
The  inspiration  of  one  generation  becomes  the  ada- 
mant canon  for  all  succeeding  generations.  A  thing 
very  fine  is  invented,  but  it  is  comparatively  easy  in 
its  convention,  and  none  ever  attempts  to  better  it. 
One  may  almost  say  that  some  obscure  condition  of 
Egyptian  life  suspended  the  principle  of  evolution 
in  Egyptian  art.  There  is  no  such  phenomenon  to  be 
found  in  the  history  of  any  other  nation." 

*'  Crocodile  art  has  to  take  a  back  seat,  then  — 
that's  all  I'm  concerned  about,"  said  Bertram. 

"  Don't  approach  such  a  grave  subject  in  a  flip- 
pant spirit,"  answered  the  German.  '*  We  must  be 
tolerant  and  remember  that  *  great  art  is  always  at  its 
goal.'  There  is,  at  the  same  time,  no  finality.  It 
is  idle  to  argue  that  the  Greek  is  greater  than  the 
Egyptian,  or  the  Egyptian  greater  than  the  Greek. 
We  range  up  and  down  among  the  classic,  the  ro- 
mantic, the  realistic  and  the  thousand  lawful  mar- 
riages and  unions  between  the  spirits  conveyed  by 


"  SUNDAY  AT  HOME  "         227 

these  terms.  No  masterpiece  excludes  another,  or 
contradicts  another. ' ' 

"  It's  a  question  between  the  seed  of  life  and  steril- 
ity," declared  Bertram.  "  There's  only  one  point 
that  I  can  see  where  the  Egyptian  beats  the  Greek, 
and  that  is  in  his  animals.  I  grant  a  Sekhet,  or 
Sphinx  is  finer  than  —  say,  a  Greek  horse  —  even  the 
glorious  head  of  the  sinking  horse  of  Selene  on  the 
Parthenon  pediment.  But  there's  a  reason  for  that. 
The  Sekhet  stands  for  more  than  a  tigress.  It  is 
incarnate  deity,  and  hides  a  goddess.  The  Greek 
horse  is  a  horse,  and  no  more.  If  the  Greeks  had 
held  that  the  beasts  hid  gods,  they  would  have  put  all 
the  mystery  of  Egypt  into  them;  but  their  gods  were 
conceived  in  human  shape;  therefore,  the  human 
figure  was  exalted  above  all  else." 

"  They  took  the  old  animal  gods  —  the  hawk  and 
snake  and  wolf  —  and  reduced  them  from  deities  to 
attendants  on  deities." 

A  woman  spoke.  It  was  Mrs.  Mackinder.  She 
rarely  began  any  sentence  without  two  words.  Be- 
hind her  back  she  was  called  *'  Ruskin  says."  Now 
she  entered  the  argument. 

**  Ruskin  says  that  all  art,  with  its  method  of  treat- 
ment lowered  to  a  standard  within  the  reach  of  any 
mediocre  craftsman,  must  be  in  a  bad  state.  At  least, 
something  like  that.  Perhaps,  Paul,  Egyptian  art  is 
not  Ruler  Art,  after  all?  " 

She  addressed  her  future  son-in-law,  and  he  re- 
plied : 

"It  is  without  doubt  Ruler  Art  of  great  majesty 
and  might,  but  it  is  a  static  thing.  It  sticks  fast. 
It  lacks  reason.     It  is  knit  up  with  religious  super- 


228  THE  JOY  OF  YOUTH 

stition,  and  where  religion  conquers,  art  faints.  The 
Egyptians  shut  the  door  against  reason,  and  their  art 
paid  the  penalty." 

"  Just  what  I  argue,"  added  Bertram.  "  The 
thing  sets  no  seed.  Like  the  intellectual  masters  of 
all  time,  it  left  no  school,  handed  down  no  traditions, 
was  complete  in  itself.  It's  the  sensual  masters  who 
keep  the  fires  burning." 

"  The  sensual  propagates,  not  the  intellectual  — 
I  grant  that." 

"  Rather  —  the  spiritual  swells  leave  no  schools  — 
only  the  sensual  swells.  Your  Titians  hand  on  the 
light  for  those  to  come ;  your  IMichelangelos  and  Rem- 
brandts  complete  themselves.  Meier-Graefe  says  it  of 
Rembrandt;  I  say  it  of  Turner.  But  Meier-Graefe 
is  blind  as  a  bat  where  Turner's  concerned.  One 
only  forgives  him  after  hearing  what  he  says  about 
Hogarth  and  Constable." 

Elsewhere  Una  Forbes  listened  to  Mr.  Fordyce. 
He  sipped  asti-cnp,  smoked  a  cigarette,  and  talked 
of  love. 

"  An  artist,  as  a  rule,  can't  do  with  one  woman, 
any  more  than  the  sky  can  do  with  one  star,"  he 
said. 

"  Genius  ought  to  be  treated  delicately  in  this- 
matter,"  she  admitted.  "  No  doubt  history  supports 
you.  But  —  I  don 't  Imow  —  women  are  taking  such 
a  strong  line  nowadays.  Women  are  going  to  teach 
the  men  that  if  they  can't  do  with  one  each,  they'll 
very  soon  have  to  go  without  any  at  all." 

* '  Not  women  —  ivomen  are  not  going  to  teach  them 
that.  The  neuters  may  try  —  those  poor,  unhappy, 
busy  ones  who  want  to  do  every  sort  of  work  in  the 


"  SUNDAY  AT  HOME  "        229 

world  but  their  own  —  they  who  think  the  vote  is 
better  worth  having  than  the  helm.  But  men  do  not 
seek  them  nor  desire  them;  they  fly  them.  For  my 
part,  I  would  say  to  such  fellow-creatures,  '  Take 
my  vote;  I  will  give  it  to  you  gladly,  on  the  under- 
standing that  you  keep  out  of  my  sight  forevermore 
and  intrude  neither  yourselves  nor  your  opinions  up- 
on me.'  Where  man  is  strong  enough,  he  will  always 
win  women.  The  true  man  is  the  complement  of  the 
true  woman ;  but  no  man  desires  to  complement  these 
working  bees.  Their  hum  is  sad  as  the  east  wind, 
and  the  honey  they  yield  is  bitter.  They  are  ill  — 
their  state  is  psychopathic.  You,  too,  are  a  musician, 
I  see." 

**  How  do  you  know  that?  "  she  asked. 

"  By  your  hands." 

She  shook  her  head. 

* '  I  worship  it  —  it  is  my  food  —  my  spiritual  food ; 
but  I  never  could  dimly  reach  my  own  ideals. 
Therefore  I  gave  it  up.  It  was  one  of  my  greatest 
griefs  that  the  gift  of  execution  was  denied  to  me." 

She  had  not  opened  a  piano  since  she  left  school, 
knew  nothing  of,  and  cared  nothing  for,  music. 

He  suspected  this,  but  pretended  to  believe  her. 

"  It  would  give  me  profound  pleasure  to  play  to 
you  some  day,"  he  said.  *'  Like  many  other  women 
of  delicate  and  fiery  sensibility,  I  doubt  not  you  took 
your  art  too  sternly  and  were  too  hard  to  satisfy." 

Loveday,  wandering  here  and  there,  found  herself 
suddenly  addressed  by  a  strange  man.  He  was 
clean-shaved,  tight-lipped,  and  very  tall.  He  had 
searching  grey  eyes  and  a  humorous  mouth.  His 
voice  proclaimed  him  an  American. 


230         THE  JOY  OF  YOUTH 

*'  And  have  you  done  anything  supreme?  "  he 
asked,  with  a  grave  face,  looking  down  at  her  from  his 
six  feet  four  inches. 

"  No,"  she  said.  '*  I've  done  nothing  at  all.  I'm 
not  worthy  to  be  here." 

"  Thank  God!  Then  we  can  talk  as  equals,"  he 
answered.  "  I've  done  nothing  at  all,  either.  But 
are  you  sure?  Perhaps  you  are  saying  this  out  of 
pity." 

He  chatted  and  amused  her. 

**  There's  a  very  delightful  man  here  to-night. 
But  I  shan't  point  him  out,  because  it  wouldn't  be 
fair.  He's  a  fellow-countryman  of  yours,  and  he 
came  to  Florence  under  a  nom  de  plume.  D'you 
know  why?  Because  he's  written  a  book  of  verses, 
and  fears  that  he'll  be  bored  to  death,  and  run  after, 
and  allowed  no  peace  if  people  get  to  know  it !  '  I  'm 
here  for  culture,  and  don't  want  them  to  make  a 
lion  of  me!  '     Those  were  his  very  words." 

* '  Vain  wretch !     What  did  you  say  ?  ' ' 

**  *  My  dear  fellow,'  I  said,  '  they  won't  even  make 
a  lapdog  of  you.  For  some  extraordinary  reason, 
your  fame  hasn't  got  to  this  benighted  city.  No- 
body's ever  heard  of  your  poems.'  He  didn't  be- 
lieve me,  of  course  —  he  doesn  't  yet. ' ' 

**  I  shall  find  him  out,"  declared  Loveday.  '*  Such 
an  insufferable  man  must  bear  the  marks." 

At  midnight  Dangerfield  saw  her  back  to  the 
"  Athena,"  and  she  thanked  him  for  the  entertain- 
ment. 

"  Mr.  Fordyee  said  you  were  quite  a  genius;  but  he 
told  us  that  you  had  not  found  your  soul  yet,"  she 
said. 


"  SUNDAY  AT  HOME  "         231 

*  *  He 's  right  in  the  second  assertion  —  a  nasty, 
sticky  man.  How  is  it  that  at  twenty-six  one  has  so 
little  patience  with  fifty?  I  think  twenty-six  is  a 
clean  age,  and  fifty  is  a  sticky  one.  He's  an  egotist 
and  a  love-hunter  and  a  beast.  But  he  can  play  the 
piano  —  I  grant  that. ' ' 

"  He  hated  you  for  saying  he  wasn't  original.  I 
saw  his  eyes  flash,  though  he  praised  you  after  you 
went  away.  You  oughtn't  to  hurt  people.  What's 
the  good?  They  don't  hurt  you.  I  wish  you  were 
more  —  what  shall  I  say  ?  —  more  lovable. ' ' 

"  I  wish  you  were  less,"  he  answered,  with  one  of 
his  rare  compliments.  *'  As  for  me,  I'm  just  going 
to  be  twenty-seven  years  old,  and  that  isn't  a  lovable 
age.  It  doesn't  know  enough.  It's  too  cocksure  — 
too  much  like  me,  in  fact.  But  remember  this :  you 
can  always  shut  me  up  and  make  me  as  humble  as 
Mrs.  Mackinder  if  you  please." 

**How?" 

*  *  Ah !  wouldn  't  you  like  to  know !  But  you 
needn't  ask  me  to  tell  you." 

"I'll  find  out." 

"  I  daresay  you  will  —  then  you'll  be  sorry  you 
have. ' ' 


CHAPTER  XXVI 

IN   THE    CASCINE 

LovEDAY,  waking  early  after  sleeping  ill,  went  out 
before  sunrise  and  felt  a  pleasant  shiver  at  the  cool 
air.  She  did  not  know  that  it  could  be  so  cold  here 
at  any  hour  of  the  twenty-four.  It  had  been  borne 
in  upon  her  of  late  how  much  of  Dangerfield's  time 
she  occupied,  and  the  reflection  began  to  alarm  her. 
He  was  a  mighty  worker,  and  put  work  before  her, 
or  anything  else ;  but  though  she  had  not  cut  into  his 
hours  of  work,  she  had  entirely  absorbed  his  leisure, 
and  began  to  feel  guilty  about  it.  For  him  she  could 
do  nothing  at  all;  but  he  had  done  so  very  much  for 
her;  and  she  was  powerless  to  prevent  it,  because 
he  laughed  down  any  objections  and  said  that  it 
was  unlike  her,  and  contrary  to  her  character,  meanly 
to  weigh  her  profit  against  his  loss  in  their  inter- 
course. 

"  Plenty  of  time  to  balance  the  books  before  you 
go,"  he  said. 

She  walked  in  the  western  darkness  of  the  Cascine 
beside  Arno,  and  watched  the  cool  green  of  the  river 
talie  on  a  flash  and  twinkle  of  melon-red  as  the  sun 
came  to  it.  Then  the  world  glowed  like  a  fire  opal 
along  the  shallows  and  stickles  of  the  stream,  and  on 
its  silent  reaches  the  reflection  of  the  houses,  the 
grass,  the  lines  of  poplars  all  flashed  warm  and  bright 


IN  THE  CASCINE  233 

against  the  milky  hazes  of  the  mountains  beyond. 
Beside  Arno  the  great  reed  grew,  and  its  glaucous 
green  was  sparkling  now  with  beads  of  pure  light 
where  dewdrops  ran.  Here  all  still  stood  in  a  shadow 
that  thrust  half  across  the  river,  and  made  a  fore- 
ground of  cool  purple  for  the  glory  of  the  morning 
beyond.  Men  were  fishing  with  rods  and  nets  along 
the  further  bank,  and  a  boat  or  two  floated  under 
it.  But  the  world  was  still  quiet.  In  the  Cascine 
nightingales  sang  together,  and  the  glades  as  yet  re- 
sisted the  sunshine  that  would  presently  pierce  them. 
The  great  gravel  beaches  of  the  river  added  their 
light  and  glowed  very  brilliantly  against  the  green; 
and  other  fine  phenomena  she  marked,  as  where  the 
poplars  quivered  away  in  one  long-drawn,  receding 
line.  A  tree  had  flowered  here  and  there,  and  its 
cotton  flashed  silvery-rose.  Then  to  the  end  of  the 
Cascine  she  tramped  with  swift  and  vigorous  strides ; 
to  find,  perched  on  a  seat  near  the  meeting  of  Arno 
and  Mugnone,  Bertram  Dangerfield  making  a  sketch 
in  oils. 

She  joyed  to  see  him,  and  was  glad  that  he  should 
know  she  could  be  early  too. 

' '  How  lovely !  ' '  she  cried.  ' '  Now  I  've  got  all  the 
credit  of  my  virtue,  and  you'll  know  that  it  isn't 
a  mere  empty  boast  that  I  rise  before  breakfast  some- 
times! " 

*'  Half  a  minute,"  he  answered.  "I'm  trying 
to  do  that  grand  colour  you  get  twenty  minutes  after 
the  sun's  over  the  mountains.  There  are  some 
houses  along  there  that  simply  made  me  go  mad  when 
the  light  touched  them  two  mornings  ago,  so  I  was 
out  in  time  to-day  for  the  magic  moment," 


234  THE  JOY  OF  YOUTH 

"  Did  it  come?  " 

*'  That's  as  much  as  to  say  it  didn't,"  he  an- 
swered. "  If,  after  looking  at  my  hour's  work,  you 
can  ask  that,  then  it  shows  only  too  clearly  that  it 
did  not  come  —  for  me.  Otherwise  you  would  purr, 
instead  of  crushing  me  with  such  a  question." 

*'  It's  loTely,  but  not  lovely  enough  to  make  you 
go  mad,  in  my  opinion,"  she  declared. 

"  As  a  matter  of  fact,"  he  confessed,  *'  the  light 
didn't  come,  or  else  my  eyes  were  muddy  this  morn- 
ing. Anyway,  I  didn't  see  it.  But  what  have  you 
seen?    Are  you  bicycling?  " 

"  No,  walking." 

*'  So  am  I.  Why  we  wanted  to  hire  those  bicycles, 
I  don't  really  know.     "We  never  use  them." 

They  trudged  back  to  Florence  side  by  side,  and 
she  told  him  what  she  had  seen,  and  he  corrected 
one  or  two  poetical  exaggerations.  It  appeared  that 
he  had  observed  everything,  and  observed  it  better 
than  she. 

"  You  make  me  so  cross  sometimes,"  Loveday  said. 
**  But  I'll  be  even  with  you  yet?  I've  felt  a  great 
deal  lately  that  I  don't  do  my  share  —  in  our  friend- 
ship, I  mean.  You're  so  useful  and  kind,  and  I  — 
I  take  all  and  give  nothing.  So  I've  been  to  the 
library  and  hired  some  learned  books,  just  to  get 
up  to  your  standard  and  interest  you.  And  I've 
read  several  fearfully  philosophical  things;  but  it's 
no  good  showing  off  to  you,  because  I  didn't  under- 
stand them." 

"  Hurrah!  What  an  escape!  The  truth  is, 
you've  tried  to  get  off  my  modest  plane  and  soar  — 
to  dazzle  me.     And  instead  of  doing  that,  you've  only 


IN  THE  CASCINE  235 

muddled  yourself.  And  serve  you  right.  Why; 
d'you  want  to  leave  me  behind?  " 

"  What's  pragmatism?  " 

**  Perhaps  Shelley,  when  he  walked  here,  asked 
himself  the  same  question.  Perhaps  he  asked  the 
nightingales.  But  —  no,  he  wouldn't  have  wasted 
his  time,  or  theirs." 

"What  is  it?  D'you  know?  Don't  say  you  do  if 
you  don't,  because  I'm  serious." 

'*  Well  you  may  be.  It's  a  weird  hour  and  place 
for  such  a  thing.  Still,  the  recording  angel  isn't 
awake  yet,  so  it  doesn't  matter.  The  germ  of  prag- 
matism is  in  Hegel,  and  I  rather  went  for  it  —  years 
ago  —  because  it  seemed  to  me  that  the  thinkers 
might,  after  all,  justify  their  existence  —  in  that 
funny  little  twilight  they  move  in  —  if  they  could 
link  up  the  unreal  world  of  metaphysics  with  the  real 
world  of  humanism.  But  it's  humbug.  The  prag- 
matists  are  only  Christians  in  disguise,  though  they 
would  be  very  angry  if  you  told  them  so.  Of  course, 
they  want  to  dethrone  reason,  and  I  like  them  for 
this:  that  they  admit  truth  isn't  everything.  But 
it's  a  cowardly  sort  of  doctrine  of  feasibility  and 
comfort  and  convenience.  Who  the  deuce  wants  to 
be  feasible  and  comfortable  and  convenient  if  he's 
got  any  pluck  in  him?  No,  a  metaphysician  can't  be 
practical;  and  you  can't  be  human  if  you  derive 
from  Hegel.  Nobody  will  argue  that  he  was  hu- 
man." 

"  It's  no  good  bothering  about  it,  then?  "  asked 
Loveday. 

"  Not  unless  you  find  it  warming  to  your  spirit." 

"I  don't." 


236  THE  JOY  OF  YOUTH 

"  Did  Sir  Ralegh?  " 

"  He  didn't." 

*'  I  swatted  at  it  fearfullj''  in  my  green  youth  and 
took  it  all  lip  again,  when  Bergson  first  at  Heaven's 
command  arose  from  out  the  professorial  rough  and 
tumble.  But  I  go  back  to  Schopenhauer  every  time, 
and  the  new  gods  don't  dethrone  him.  I  can't  find 
a  moral  metaphysic  outside  him  —  nothing  for  your 
brains  and  impulses  and  instincts  to  get  fat  and  jolly 
upon.  The  rest  are  like  athletics  —  all  right  as  tonic, 
but  no  use  for  food." 

**  Is  Schopenhauer  food?  "  she  asked. 

"  Food  and  drink,"  he  assured  her.  *'  We  never 
hear  of  his  beauty,  only  his  strength.  But  what  is 
his  '  Compassion  '  but  beauty  —  the  uttermost 
beauty?  It's  worth  all  the  *  Categorical  Impera- 
tives '  and  *  Wills  to  Power,'  and  '  intuitions  '  put 
together.  In  fact,  it's  the  most  beautiful  thing  in 
human  nature  really.  Not  to  see  all  men  in  our- 
selves, but  ourselves  in  all  men  —  that's  Schopen- 
hauer 's  '  Compassion  ' —  great  enough  to  make  ten 
men  immortal,  let  alone  one.  And  that's  what 
Nietzsche  tried  to  kill  —  and  couldn't." 

*'  Schopenhauer  must  be  read  by  me,"  declared 
Loveday.     **  He's  evidently  beautiful." 

'  *  And  wonderful  and  terrible  sometimes  —  like  a 
day  of  thunder-clouds  and  threatenings,  with  the 
sunshine  breaking  through  and  warming  you,  just 
when  you're  getting  cold  and  frightened.  He  ought 
to  win  the  artists,  for  he  admits  that  the  emotion 
excited  by  art  is  among  the  precious  things  in  a  sad 
world.  '  In  art  power  alone  matters,'  he  said,  and 
Aristotle  said  the  same.     Schopenhauer's  '  Compas- 


IN  THE  CASCINE  237 

sion  '  seems  to  run  pretty  close  to  the  Greek  Aidos 
—  a  sort  of  conscience  waking  to  ruth  or  shame  that 
the  world  should  be  as  unhappy  as  it  is.  And,  more 
than  that,  a  feeling  that  the  helpless  are  sanctified, 
that  they  make  claim  to  the  most  sacred  places  of  the 
human  heart.  The  very  old  and  very  young  appeal 
to  Aidos.  It  is  a  spirit  that  can  turn  no  deaf  ear  to 
the  widow  and  orphan." 

'  *  And  belongs  to  far-off  Greek  things  ?  ' '  she  asked 
him. 

**  I  believe  Schopenhauer  found  it  there,  or  else 
rediscovered  it  in  his  own  great  soul.  Who  can  say 
Aidos  lacks  spirituality  when  we  see  the  objects  of 
it?  The  disinherited  of  earth,  the  helpless,  the  in- 
jured, the  very  dead.  '  Though  he  is  my  enemy,  I 
compassionate  him,'  says  Ulysses  of  Ajax,  in  Sopho- 
cles, *  because  he  is  yoked  to  grapple  with  fearful  ca- 
lamity ' ;  and  the  poor  madman  himself,  in  that 
mighty  passage  of  pathos,  is  driven  to  holy  sorrow 
at  leaving  his  wife  a  widow  and  his  child  an  orphan 
amid  their  foes.  At  the  end,  too,  when  Agamemnon 
asks  whether  Ulysses  feels  Aidos  for  the  corpse  of  a 
foe,  the  answer  comes,  *  Yes,  for  his  goodness  is  more 
to  me  than  his  hate. '  Pure  rationalism  led  to  that  — 
the  rationalism  of  the  early  Greeks.  But  Aidos  took 
wing  afterwards  —  so  says  Gilbert  Murray.  Aidos 
belonged  to  the  childhood  of  the  Golden  Age,  and 
vanished  off  the  earth  before  the  policeman  and  pub- 
lic opinion  and  the  scientific  bent  of  mind.  Then  she 
came  back  and  found  Schopenhauer,  because  she  knew 
his  heart  could  make  a  home  for  her.  That's  where 
Nietzsche  is  a  mere  barbarian  beside  Schopenhauer. 
He   pits    Hubris   against    Aidos  —  the    faculty    that 


238         THE  JOY  OF  YOUTH 

scorns  tradition,  revels  in  brute  strength,  exalts 
power  and  pride  to  the  throne." 

**  Go  on  about  compassion,"  begged  Loveday. 

* '  Well,  there  it  is  in  a  word  —  just  fellow-feeling 
—  putting  yourself  in  the  other  man's  place.  From 
it  springs  every  action  that  is  worth  a  groat  —  mo- 
rally speaking.  And  he  proves  it  brilliantly,  of 
course.  Compassion  is,  in  fact,  one  of  the  three  fun- 
damental springs  of  human  action  —  only  the  third 
in  order,  I  regret  to  say.  He  puts  the  others  first 
and  second.  No  doubt  that's  why  they  call  him  a 
pessimist. ' ' 

"  What  are  they?  "  asked  she. 

"Number  One  is  Number  One  —  egoism.  That's 
the  lever  that  moves  the  world  of  each  of  us;  and 
Number  Two  is  Malice  —  the  willing  of  woe  to  your 
fellow  man.     I  hope  Schopenhauer  is  wrong  there." 

*'  Does  he  despise  the  English,  like  Nietzsche?  " 

**  He  thinks  of  us  very  justly,  as  the  most  honour- 
able and  most  hypocritical  race  on  earth.  That 
sounds  a  rum  mixture,  but  it's  true,  because  our  ideal 
is  justice  and  our  bugbear  is  morals." 

Loveday  nodded. 

"  Stop  here  and  finish  off  metaphysics  quick,"  she 
said.     "I'm  getting  hungry  and  tired,  both." 

They  sat  a  moment  under  the  great  white-bolcd 
poplars  of  the  Cascine. 

"  Metaphysics  is  seeking  to  know  things  as  they 
are,  despite  the  prime  physical  certainty  that  you 
never  can,  because  no  two  know  alike.  The  beauti- 
ful ideas  in  the  swagger  metaphysicians  are  not  meta- 
physics. Take  your  Bergson  again.  I  wade  through 
anything   of   his  — ■  for   the   poetry.     I   remember   a 


IN  THE  CASCINE  239 

case.  He  is  talking  somewhere  about  indetermina- 
tion  into  matter,  or  some  such  fearful  wild-fowl,  and 
then  he  cries  out  suddenly,  like  that  hidden  nightin- 
gale there,  that  love — -maternal  love,  may  hold  the 
real  secret  of  life !  The  mother 's  love  shows  lis  each 
generation  leaning  and  yearning  over  the  generation 
that  is  to  follow!  That's  poetry;  but  when  poor 
science  struggles  to  do  the  same,  and  leans  over  the 
next  generation  with  pure  love  in  her  spectacled  eyes 
and  enthusiasm  in  her  steely  bosom,  and  we  see  '  Eu- 
genics '  born,  the  artists  and  socialists  and  *  intellec- 
tuals '  to  a  man  don't  see  the  poetry,  and  merely 
make  faces,  and  say  that  the  "unborn  must  happen  by 
chance  forever,  because  Dick,  Tom,  and  Harry,  and 
a  few  other  celebrities,  happened  by  chance.  We 
may  breed  sweet-peas  and  ladies'  lap-dogs,  but  it's 
farmyard  philosophy  to  bother  about  ladies'  babies. 
However,  science  is  well  used  to  seeing  silly  people 
put  their  tongues  out  at  her.  It's  easy  to  be  patient 
if  you  know  you're  going  to  win." 

"  Science  must  win,  I  suppose?  "  asked  Loveday. 

"  Science  must  win,"  he  declared.  "  Physics,  the 
strong,  has  always  been  merciful  to  metaphysics,  the 
weak.  To  talk  about  a  metaphysical  need  is  bosh. 
The  things  that  have  made  the  history  of  the  world 
are  all  outside  metaphysics,  and  morals  too.  They 
hamper  action,  as  you  may  see  in  certain,  living 
men  of  action,  who  would  have  been  ten  times  the 
men  they  were,  but  for  their  love  of  dialectics." 

**  I  want  my  roll  and  coffee,"  said  Loveday. 

*'  I  knotv  you  eat  two  at  least,"  he  answered  — 
"  perhaps  three,  and  then,  in  your  secret  heart,  won- 
der how  you  will  survive  till  luncheon.    Anyway,  I 


240  THE  JOY  OF  YOUTH 

always  eat  three,  and  am  full  of  greediness  and  hun- 
ger an  hour  afterwards.  That's  one  of  the  joys  of 
being  young  —  the  joy  of  hunger.  We  can  stuff 
gloriously,  and  eat  ices  and  drink  anything,  and 
never  think  about  next  morning." 

"  Or  take  mosquitoes,"  she  said.  "It's  a  sign 
that  people  are  getting  on  when  they  worry  about 
mosquitoes.  I  hear  Stella  wandering  about  her  room 
at  night  with  Kuskin's  '  Mornings  in  Florence,'  and 
then  there's  a  crash  and  a  sigh,  and  I  know  she's 
missed.  But,  as  for  me,  the  mosquitoes  may  have  my 
bluest  vein  to  suck.  Nothing  can  wake  me  when  I'm 
once  asleep." 

'*  These  great  gifts  make  us  insolent  to  the  old," 
he  declared.  ' '  Only  the  old  are  poor  —  the  unhappy 
things  who  take  about  little  bottles  for  little  troubles, 
and  little  pillows  for  little  pains — 'the  sad  folk  who 
look  at  a  menu,  as  people  look  at  a  hand  in  a  game 
—  to  consider  what  they  had  better  discard.  By  the 
old  —  speaking  generally  —  one  means  everybody 
over  forty-five.  Do  we  read  menus?  No,  or  if  we 
do,  it's  for  greediness,  not  discretion.  "We  don't 
need  discretion.  We  go  dashing  gloriously  on  — 
tasting  everything  in  life.  Nothing  shocks  us,  noth- 
ing gives  us  mental  or  physical  indigestion.  We  try 
all  things." 

"  And  ought  to  cleave  to  that  which  is  good," 
quoted  Loveday. 

"  And  don't  we?  I  know  I  do.  Not  a  man  in 
Florence  works  harder  than  I,  and  work  can  be  a 
very  distinguished  business,  or  a  very  mean  business, 
according  to  the  mind  behind  it.  You  can  make  a 
statue  basely,  or  a  footstool  nobly." 


IN  THE  CASCINE  241 

She  laughed. 

*'  '  Ruskin  says  ' — " 

**  Words  like  it,  no  doubt.  The  thought  is  obvi- 
ous. But  he's  often  dreadfully  right,  though  you 
may  chaff  him.  He  tells  you,  for  instance,  that  the 
most  beautiful  things  in  the  world  are  the  most  use- 
less.    So  now  it's  my  turn  to  laugh." 

"  Why?  " 

* '  Because  —  look  at  yourself !  Is  there  a  lovelier, 
uselesser  thing  in  all  Firenze,  or  Italy,  than  you?  " 

*'  To  be  beautiful  is  to  be  a  thousand  times  more 
than  useful,"  said  Loveday  in  her  pride.  "  Any- 
body can  be  useful.  Those  men  there  with  their  carts 
in  the  river,  picking  stones  out  of  the  water,  are  use- 
ful. You  are  useful.  I'm  like  the  view  from  Val- 
lombrosa  —  not  in  the  least  useful,  but  something 
better." 

"  So  you  laugh  last,"  he  answered.  "  And  while 
you  are  beautiful  and  I  am  useful  —  to  you  —  noth- 
ing else  matters.  But  you  are  going  to  be  useful 
too  —  presently  —  at  least,  I  hope  so." 

He  left  her  on  the  doorstep  of  the  "Athena"; 
then  he  turned  back  after  having  said  farewell. 

* '  Remember  the  Uffizi  to-morrow  —  and  Botti- 
celli." 

**  Remember!     D'you  think  I  shall  forget?  " 

He  shrugged  his  shoulders. 

"  Things  may  happen — .in  fact,  they  will  happen. 
I  warn  you  of  that.  A  time  may  come  when  you  will 
wish  you  had  forgotten." 

With  these  words  he  left  her  wondering. 


CHAPTER  XXVII 

THE  iraW-BORN  VENUS 

Then  dawned  a  day  big  with  the  fate  of  the  young 
man  and  maiden.  They  devoted  it  to  Botticelli.  In 
the  morning  they  went  to  the  Pitti  and  the  Aeea- 
demia;  and  in  the  afternoon  they  stood  before  the 
Venus  at  the  Uffizi. 

Loveday  came  innocently  to  this  meeting;  but  the 
man  had  a  tremendous  ambition  presently  to  be  ex- 
ploded on  her  ears. 

*'  There's  more  bosh  talked  about  Botticelli's 
Venus  than  any  picture  in  the  world,"  he  said. 
"  Pater,  for  instance,  declares  that  the  drawing  is 
as  faultless  as  Ingres'.  Well,  it  isn't,  and  there's 
an  end  of  the  matter.  Look  at  the  weak  left  arm 
and  shoulder,  if  nothing  else.  She's  like  those  other 
things  we  saw  in  stone  —  just  a  delicious  woman 
made  to  be  loved  and  to  have  the  doubt  and  sadness 
kissed  out  of  her  wonderful,  pleading  eyes.  But 
she's  not  Venus  —  more's  the  Lorenzo  di  Credi  in 
the  next  room  —  a  portrait,  too — i  older,  but  pre- 
cious. This  girl  was  a  Medici 's  mistress  —  or  some- 
body's.  She's  in  a  dozen  of  Botticelli's  pictures, 
and  if  she  was  Simonetta  really,  then  her  early  death 
was  not  hidden  from  the  prophetic  painter.  It's  in 
her  eyes." 

"  She's  unutterably  lovely  to  me." 


THE  NEW-BORN  VENUS      243 

* '  So  she  is  to  me  —  save  for  the  affectation  of  the 
hands.  Why  on  earth  did  the  new-born  Venus  want 
to  use  her  hands  and  her  hair  for  clothes?  Why  did 
she  seek  to  cover  her  bosom  more  than  her  face? 
That  betrayed  the  painter,  not  the  subject.  She's 
neither  modest  nor  impudent  —  It's  the  old,  stupid 
pose  that  spoils  scores  of  statues  to  me.  My 
Venus  — ' ' 

**  Won't  have  any  soul;  and  I  expect  you're  too 
young  to  see  all  that  other  people  see  in  this  Venus, '  * 
said  Loveday. 

He  looked  at  her  and  did  not  argue. 

*'  Perhaps  I  am.  My  mind  is  hard  and  clean  yet. 
I  value  the  healthy  and  the  sweet  and  the  sane.  I 
hate  the  morbid,  and  the  soul  is  always  morbid.  In 
fact,  like  the  pearl,  it's  a  morbid  secretion.  I  love 
Michelangelo's  tondo;  because  it  is  soulless  and 
Greek  and  not  Christian.  The  child's  hair  is  full 
of  vine-leaves  to  me.  Alnd  it  is  the  Greek  in  Botti- 
celli that  I  care  about,  not  the  mysticism.  A  mod- 
ern generation  of  critics  have  found  that  in  him. 
Half  the  critics'  virtues  are  faults  to  a  painter." 

Then  Loveday  spoke: 

**  You  are  very  hard,  as  you  say;  but  I  suppose 
you'll  be  different,  like  everybody  else,  when  time 
has  played  its  tricks  and  sorrow  has  come." 

*'  You're  not  well,"  he  answered.  *'  This  is  not 
the  way  for  young  Loveday  to  talk.  Stand  by  her 
a  moment  —  the  place  is  empty.  There  —  you  've  got 
a  good  deal  of  her,  as  I  told  you  that  first  great  mo- 
ment we  met  in  London.  Take  off  your  hat  for  one 
second.  I  implore  it.  Yes;  but  you're  grander  — 
your  fingers  are  stronger  and  rounder;  your  shoul- 


244         THE  JOY  OF  YOUTH 

ders  are  wider.  How  difficult  you'd  be!  Oh,  Love- 
day,  if  you  could — ^if  you  could  only  sit  to  me  for 
my  Venus,  what  a  gorgeous  picture  I  should  make !  ' ' 

She  stared  at  him,  and  seemed  to  grow  larger  while 
sudden  colour  mantled  her  cheeks. 

**  I'm  not  a  model,"  she  said. 

* '  Yes,  you  are  —  the  model  of  all  models  —  the 
everlasting,  precious,  lovely,  solemn  thing  I  want  — 
more  wonderful  than  this,  because  more  splendid. 
Here  is  beauty  without  power,  or  promise  of  power; 
you'd  be  young,  new-born,  growing  under  one's  very 
eyes,  and  stately,  too  —  not  sad,  nor  yet  happy — > 
just  the  serene,  all-conquering  goddess!  " 

There  was  something  like  pain  in  her  eyes  now,  and 
her  voice  rang  unsteadily. 

"  What  will  you  say  next?  " 

**  I'll  say  you'd  have  your  part  —  the  supreme 
part  —  in  what  might  be  a  grand  thing.  I'll  say 
you'd  justify  your  existence,  if  I  can  make  you. 
Come  and  see  the  Venus  Genitriee  now.  There's 
only  the  Greek  torso  left,  and  that  isn't  as  glorious 
as  another  Venus  like  it  —  in  the  Museo  Nazionale 
at  Rome;  but  you  can  see  the  very  body  of  Venus 
there  —  a  thing  that  might  have  been  shaped  on  you, 
a  goddess  with  the  warm  ichor  in  her  veins  under 
the  transparent  robe.  My  Venus  will  have  less  light 
than  Botticelli's,  but  not  such  a  cold  light.  I  think 
of  the  fore-glow  warming  the  sea,  as  I  saw  it  once 
in  the  Mediterranean  —  just  great  shreds  of  warm, 
coppery  light  floating  like  flower-petals  on  the  pur- 
ple. Only  the  horizon  was  full  of  dim  fire,  and  over- 
head the  stars  still  glimmered.  Her  shell  of  pearl 
is  just  stranding  in  the  cold,  blue  foam.     She  comes 


THE  NEW-BORN  VENUS      245 

to  earth  with  the  aube,  and  her  eyes  will  be  your 
eyes,  and  her  body  your  body  if  you  will  it." 

She  panted. 

"  My  God!  What  do  you  make  of  me?  "  she  cried, 
so  loudly  that  a  guardian  of  the  gallery  —  a  rat-faced, 
withered  man  —  came  round  the  corner. 

"It  is  what  I  would  make  of  you,"  he  answered 
calmly,     *'  This  is  Italy,  remember,  not  Devonshire." 

*  *  Never,  never  mention  it  again ;  from  the  moment 
you  do,  I  will  not  see  you,  or  speak  to  you." 

"So  be  it,  Loveday.  After  this  hour  it  shall  not 
be  mentioned.  But  you  must  hear  me  now,  and  you 
must  utterly  change  your  point  of  view  and  take  a 
bath  of  clean  ideas  before  you  leave  me.  This  hope 
has  been  the  dream  of  my  life  since  I  first  saw  you 
in  the  cast  room  at  the  B.  M.  You  must  know  that 
I  honour  and  respect  you  above  any  woman  I  have 
ever  seen,  just  as  I  admire  you  above  any  woman  I 
have  ever  seen;  and  in  asking  you  this,  I  am  pay- 
ing you  the  mightiest  compliment  in  my  power.  For 
God's  sake  make  an  effort  and  be  Greek  for  five 
minutes.  You  owe  me  that,  for  if  you  carry  away 
a  false  opinion  from  this  room,  or  believe  for  an  in- 
stant that  I  have  cast  a  shadow  on  you,  then  I  shall 
be  a  very  unhappy  man.  It  is  clearly  understood 
that  it  can't  happen.  Your  word  is  law  on  that 
point,  and  the  hope  of  my  life  is  lost." 

"  I  hate  to  think  that  you  have  dared  to  imagine 
me  so,"  she  said.  "  I  hate  it;  and  I  hate  you  for 
doing  it ;  and  any  English  girl  would  hate  and  loathe 
a  man  if  she  thought  he  was  vile  enough  to  do  it." 

"  Good!  Now  there's  a  strong  position  —  the  po- 
sition of  the  true-born,  outraged  English  girl.    But 


246  THE  JOY  OF  YOUTH 

listen,  and  I  swear  you  shall  hate  and  loathe  me  no 
more.  kWe've  agreed  to  see  things  from  each  other's 
point  of  view  as  much  as  man  and  woman  can.  So 
we'll  see  this,  too.  Your  view  is  clear  —  the  inno- 
cent, horrified,  virginal  view.  Now,  what  is  it  built 
on?  Of  what  is  it  the  outcome?  Why  are  you  out- 
raged? Phryne  —  the  Cnidian  Venus  of  Praxiteles 
— '  let  the  whole  world  see  her  ascend  from  her  bath  — 
not  for  lewdness,  but  just  for  love,  because  she  hap- 
pened to  be  the  most  beautiful  thing  in  Greece,  and 
she  knew  that  the  sight  of  her  must  be  a  joy  to  every- 
body who  loved  beauty." 

**  Shame  has  come  into  the  world  since  then,"  said 
Loveday.     **  I'm  not  a  Greek  hetaira." 

**  Yes  —  shame  has  come  into  the  world,  and  Chris- 
tianity has  tried  to  strangle  sense  for  two  thousand 
years  and  make  Art  a  slave,  instead  of  a  queen.  But 
no  religion  will  ever  strangle  sense.  Pure  paganism 
is  pure  —  pure  at  heart  and  in  peace  with  itself  and 
Nature;  Christianity  is  impure  at  heart  and  at  war 
—  ceaseless,  losing  war  —  with  Nature." 

"  What's  that  to  me?  " 

"  Everything.  The  Greeks  were  too  wise  to  Hght 
a  losing  battle  if  they  could  help  it.  They  bowed  to 
nature  —  fatal  or  victorious.  But  Christianity  has 
gone  from  bad  to  worse,  and  the  consequences  of  her 
losing  battle  are  psychological.  They  have  vitiated 
clean  thinking  and  clean  living;  they  have  brought 
man  to  such  a  pass  that  not  one  man  in  fifty  can 
think  cleanly  if  he  tries  to,  and  not  one  woman  in 
a  hundred.  Now,  let's  get  this  thing  on  to  the  proper 
plane.  You'll  not  accuse  pagan  me  of  any  base  or 
vile     thought,     Loveday?    You    mtistn't    do    that. 


THE  NEW-BORN  VENUS      247 

'Art's  my  goddess,  not  you  —  that  goes  without  say- 
ing, doesn't  it?  You  would  be  infernally  difficult, 
and  I  should  probably  curse  the  gods  for  hurling  such 
a  problem  at  my  head.  There  would  be  a  terrible 
struggle  for  a  masterpiece,  followed  very  likely  by 
defeat  and  life-long  disappointment.  If  I  failed,  I 
should  hate  myself  forever." 

**  And  me  too." 

*'  Not  you.  Now  for  the  physical  side  fh-st. 
There  are  worldly  thinkers  —  and  everybody's  more 
or  less  stained  with  the  world  by  the  time  they're 
forty — .who  would  say  it  wasn't  possible  for  an 
artist  to  do  this  without  sense  coming  into  it;  and 
perhaps  it  wouldn't  be  for  anybody  past  forty  years 
old.  But  I'm  short  of  twenty-seven,  and  I  tell  you 
this:  that  I  know  myself.  Every  man  is  a  bundle 
of  twisted  impulses  —  a  plaited  rope  that's  pitted 
against  the  strain  of  the  world.  It  depends  on  the 
blend  whether  the  rope  wears  well  —  a  rotten  strand 
or  two  will  fray  all.  But  the  very  best  are  like  to 
get  ragged  and  worn  if  a  man  lives  long  enough,  and 
the  strands  of  sense  are  seldom  absent  from  the 
artist's  rope.  In  my  case  the  rope's  not  frayed  — 
there  hasn't  been  time.  I  don't  pretend  to  say  what 
I  may  be  when  I  get  among  the  *  roaring  forties  '; 
but  at  present  I'm  far  too  ambitious  to  be  immoral 
or  incontinent,  and  I'm  also  far  too  busy  and  too 
conceited,  if  you  like.  At  my  age  a  man  of  any  dis- 
tinction ought  to  be  working  as  the  giants  work. 
You  must  be  abstemious  and  use  sense  like  a  miser 
if  you  want  to  do  big  things;  because  energy  is  en- 
ergy, and  force  is  force,  and  the  best  endowed  have 
only  their  daily  share  to  spend  and  no  more." 


248  THE  JOY  OF  YOUTH 

"  You  may  be  sure  of  yourself.  I  take  that  for 
granted.  But  you  must  think  of  others  beside  your- 
self. You  must  think  of  a  proud  woman  and  a  proud 
man.  Just  ask  yourself  one  question.  What  would 
Ralegh  say?  " 

"  Since  he  won't  know,  it  doesn't  matter  an  atom 
what  he'd.  say.  You  might  as  well  ask  what  Mrs. 
Grundy  would  say." 

**  And  what  should  I  feel  when  I  saw  him  again?  " 

"  Good  Lord,  Loveday!  What  a  reactionary  ques- 
tion! Haven't  you  got  any  further  than  that? 
Well,  let  me  jog  on;  but  stop  me  if  I  bore  you,  or 
trouble  you.  It's  for  your  peace  as  much  as  for 
my  own  self-respect  that  I'm  talking." 

'*  I  want  you  to  speak." 

**  If  something  would  hurt  you  to  see  Sir  Ralegh 
again  after  you'd  sat  to  me  for  Venus,  the  question 
is  what?  I  suppose  you'd  say  it  was  conscience, 
and  that  means  we  are  up  against  a  question  of  right 
and  wrong.  Well,  right  or  wrong  simply  means 
harming  others,  or  not  harming  them.  D'you  grant 
that?  " 

"  Yes,  in  the  last  resort." 

* '  In  the  last  and  in  the  first.  Because,  if  you  even 
make  it  personal  and  say  that  right  or  wrong  may 
mean  harming  yourself,  or  not  harming  yourself, 
still  the  community  is  involved.  If  you  harm  your- 
self, or  do  wrong  to  yourself,  you  are  weakening 
yourself  and  so  doing  harm  to  everybody.  Who  shall 
decide?  A  man  —  your  future  husband  —  thinks 
himself  harmed  by  you  because  you  sit  to  me?  But 
is  he?  You  know  perfectly  well  that  you  have  not 
harmed   him.     Still,   the   sense   of  harm   lies  in   his 


THE  NEW-BORN  VENUS      249 

mind;  therefore,  it  is  real  to  him;  while  to  your 
mind  it  is  not  real  at  all." 

"  To  my  mind  it  would  be  very  real." 

*'  "Wait.  I  am  assuming  that  on  the  strength  of 
pure  reason  you  would  feel  you  had  done  him  no 
harm.  If  you  have,  then  the  harm  can  be  named; 
but  can  it?  No,  there  is  no  name  for  the  harm. 
However,  he  would  hold  himself  injured  and  you 
know  that  he  would.  I  wish  I  could  make  you  see 
before  I  go  on  that  his  injury  is  imaginary  rather 
than  real.  Are  you  sure  honestly  you  don't  see 
that?  " 

She  hesitated. 

"  There  are  some  things  you  feel  about,  and  feel- 
ing is  higher  than  thinking,"  she  said.  "  What's 
the  good  of  going  on  in  this  cold-blooded  way?  " 

"  The  good  is  that  you  shan't  leave  me  either 
thinking  or  feeling  one  evil  thought  against  me,"  he 
answered.  *'  Don't  miss  the  thread  of  the  argument. 
Grant,  just  for  pure  reason's  sake,  that  Sir  Ralegh's 
injury  is  not  real.  Drop  feeling  an  inherited  preju- 
dice and  false  shame  for  a  moment  and  confess  that, 
as  a  mere  matter  of  fact,  the  man  is  not  really 
wronged." 

"  What  then?  " 

"  Then  an  individual's  mistaken  sense  of  wrong 
is  coming  between  a  creator  and  a  possible  master- 
piece," he  said  calmly.  "  That's  only  one  man 
against  another,  of  course,  and  there's  nothing  much 
in  it.  But  suppose  I  made  a  great  picture  —  a  thing 
that  would  mean  joy  for  generations  unborn?  Is 
your  lover's  comfort  and  content  to  come  between 
the  world  and  even  the  possibility  of  such  a  thing? 


250         THE  JOY  OF  YOUTH 

Is  my  Venus  never  to  be  born,  for  fear  that  your 
Ralegh's  conventional  standards  may  be  threat- 
ened? " 

*'  Certainly.  His  feelings  are  a  thousand  times 
more  to  me  than  your  ambitions." 

"  Isn't  that  rather  selfish!  Understand  that  in 
one  way  I  am  glad  to  escape  the  great  ordeal  of  paint- 
ing you,  Loveday,  for  failure  would  be  a  fearful  trib- 
ulation to  me;  but  I  must  see  that  my  conscience 
really  is  clear." 

*'  I've  settled  once  for  all." 

*'  I  know  you  have.  Then  to  the  academic  argu- 
ment. He's  wronged.  Tell  me  how.  Or,  if  that 
isn't  to  be;  if,  as  you  say,  it's  a  mere  nameless  feel- 
ing in  you  that  he's  wronged,  then  for  fairness  try 
to  analyse  that  feeling  and  explain  how  it  masters 
you  so  completely.  You  cannot  do  a  great  service  to 
art,  because  your  lover  wouldn't  like  it.  "Well,  de- 
fine his  injuries.  How  would  he  write  them  himself, 
if  he  knew  what  I'd  asked  you  to  do?  " 

"  He'd  write  them  with  a  horsewhip  on  your 
shoulders.  He'd  want  to  kill  you  for  even  daring 
to  dream  of  such  a  horror.  And  — 'I'm  nothing, 
nothing  like  beautiful  enough  —  whatever  you 
think." 

''  '  Beauty  is  the  promise  of  happiness,  '  "  he 
quoted.  "  My  picture,  painted  in  your  light,  would 
have  been  happiness,  must  have  been  pure  happiness 
—  unless  I  had  failed.  Luminous  with  beauty  —  an 
everlasting  thing  if  I'd  only  been  master  enough. 
Beauty  is  a  relative  terra,  and  you  may  as  well  dis- 
pute about  taste  or  conduct ;  but  there  are  some  things 
about  which  there  can  be  no  dispute  —  like  moon- 


THE  NEW-BORN  VENUS      251 

light  ou  tlie  sea,  or  the  man  who  gives  his  life  for 
his  friend  — <  or  you. ' ' 

He  was  infinitely  patient  and  perfectly  cool;  she 
was  growing  more  and  more  agitated,  and  her  self- 
control  threatened  to  depart. 

"  Leave  it  —  leave  it,  for  God's  sake!  It  shows 
how  useless  our  wretched  rea.son  is  when  —  when  — 
oh,  can't  you  understand  what  I'm  made  of,  or  is 
it  hidden  from  your  artist  mind?  I  hate  art  —  I 
shall  always  loathe  art  and  everything  to  do  with  art 
forever  and  ever  after  to-day.  I  forgive  you  —  I 
know  you're  right,  from  your  point  of  view,  and  I 
know  I  'm  right  from  mine,  and  —  let  me  get  out  of 
this  and  go  home.  I'll  go  back  to  England  at  once. 
I  don't  feel  as  I  did.  But  I  know  it's  all  for  art  — 
nothing  but  art.     I  know  that." 

"  If  you  forgive  me  and  understand  that  much, 
nothing  else  matters,"  he  said.  "  Come  along.  I'll 
see  you  back.  And  don't  cuss  art  —  only  me.  And 
don't  go  all  the  way  home  savage  with  me.  I  only 
did  my  duty  as  a  serious  artist.  I'm  off  myself  to- 
morrow —  to  Siena  for  a  few  days,  to  paint  some- 
thing I  want  there.  So  you'll  have  peace  and  quiet. 
Go  and  look  at  things  by  yourself,  and  think  j^our 
own  thoughts  about  them.  I've  been  playing  the 
schoolmaster  too  much  altogether.  Eegard  me  as 
dead  and  buried  —  at  any  rate,  till  I  come  back 
again. ' ' 

He  saw  her  to  the  hotel,  and,  to  show  her  that  the 
subject  was  dropped  forever,  spoke  of  indifferent 
matters  and  their  common  acquaintance.  But  his 
eyes  roamed  restlessly;  his  mind  was  suffering  bit- 
terly under  a  mighty  disappointment.     This  had  been 


252         THE  JOY  OF  YOUTH 

the  dream  of  many  months.  He  concealed  the  fact, 
however,  and  strove  to  restore  Loveday's  serenity. 
She  proved  not  easy  to  cahn.  Things  rather  than 
people  seemed  to  offer  peace  to  her.  Her  eyes  held 
the  Bigallo  for  a  while,  and  when  they  came  to  the 
Piazza  Santa  Maria  Novella  she  gazed  upon  the  front 
of  the  church,  to  find  peace  in  its  lifted  loveliness 
and  stately  form.  Seeking  to  distract  her,  he  fas- 
tened upon  it  and  spoke  about  it  before  he  took  his 
leave. 

"  The  glorious  thing  is  always  darkened  for  me  by 
a  gloomy  thought.  The  Paterenes,  you  know.  Their 
heresy  —  what  was  it?  " 

"  Do  heresies  trouble  you?  "  she  asked  languidly, 
wdth  her  eyes  on  the  church. 

' '  Not  as  a  rule ;  but  the  results  of  this  one  were 
so  dreadful.  They  thought  the  body  was  merely  a 
prison  for  the  punishment  of  sins  committed  before 
birth;  they  believed  marriage  was  wicked;  that  the 
body  of  Christ  was  never  on  the  altar,  because  it 
had  never  existed  really  save  as  a  spirit,  and  couldn't 
therefore  be  turned  into  flesh  and  blood.  They  were, 
you  see,  exceedingly  tough  and  difficult  customers; 
and  to  deal  with  them  and  steady  down  their  vain 
imaginings,  the  Inquisition  came  to  Firenze.  And  it 
was  here  —  here  in  this  ineffable  Santa  Maria  Novella 
— '  that  the  Dominicans  gave  the  Inquisition  a  home. ' ' 

' '  Where  are  you  going  to  be  at  Siena  ?  ' '  she  asked. 

"  Don't  know  exactly.  I  shall  see  if  some  of  ray 
friends  are  there.  But  if  you  wanted  anything,  you 
might  write  to  the  Grand  Hotel  Continental.  If  I'm 
not  there,  I  can  call  every  day  on  the  chance.  Good- 
bye.    If  you  and  '  the  Apennine  '  feel  in  the  least 


THE  NEW-BORN  VENUS      253 

tempted  to  come  to  Siena  again,  there's  my  car  will 
be  eating  its  head  off,  for  it  will  take  me  there  and 
then  come  back." 

"  How  long  shall  you  be  there?  " 

"  Don't  know  a  bit.     Good-bye,  again." 


CHAPTER  XXVIII 

LOVEDAY  TO  RALEGH 

*'  FiRENZE. 

'*  My  Dearest  Ralegh, — 

**  Ever  so  many  thanks  for  your  long,  in- 
teresting letter.  Only  there's  one  thing:  Mr.  Dan- 
gerfield  is  not  *  an  outsider  '  in  any  sense,  or  in  any 
shadow  of  a  sense.  He  is  a  very  great  artist,  and 
if  you  saw  into  his  mind  as  I  have,  you  would  recall 
that  unpleasant  word.  He  is  a  dignified,  high- 
minded  gentleman,  and  happens  to  be  an  artist,  too. 
It  may  or  may  not  be  rare  for  an  artist  to  be  a  gen- 
tleman; but  he  is,  to  the  very  core  of  his  being,  and 
he  has  a  most  delicate  and  subtle  perception  as  well, 
which  all  gentlemen  have  not. 

"  I  called  on  the  Princess,  as  you  wished,  because 
she  had  known  your  father  in  Rome;  but  it  was  all 
fearfully  absurd:  she'd  forgotten  all  about  the 
Vanes,  and  mixed  them  up  with  other  people.  I 
bored  her  fearfully  for  about  a  quarter  of  an  hour, 
and  then  cleared  out.  English  people  here  are  a 
community  to  themselves.  They  hardly  mix  at  all 
with  the  Italians,  and  not  much  with  the  Americans 
either  —  at  least,  not  such  as  I  know.  The  Italians 
are  hidden  from  us  —  quite  right  too.  If  I  was  an 
Italian,  I  should  hate  to  have  English  people  poking 
into  my  home  and  secretly  criticising  my  ways  and 
all  the  differences  there  must  be  between  Latins  and 


LOVED  AY  TO  RALEGH       255 

Anglo-Saxons.  We  are  interlopers  at  best,  and  don't 
cut  at  all  a  dignified  figure,  in  my  opinion.  How- 
ever, I  shouldn't  mind  what  they  thought  if  they'd 
only  let  me  stop.  I'd  sooner  live  in  Italy  than  any- 
where in  the  world  —  but  I  've  told  you  that  already, 
and  I  know  you  hate  it.  All  the  same,  I  shall  love 
to  see  dear  little  Devonshire  again. 

"  Now  to  tell  you  about  some  beautiful  things. 
Of  course,  my  taste  is  not  formed,  and  I  often  like 
the  wrong  things ;  but  if  I  like  a  thing,  I  do,  and  it 's 
no  good  trying  to  choke  me  off  it,  as  Mr.  Dangerfield 
sometimes  does.  He,  of  course,  has  served  a  life's 
apprenticeship  to  art,  and  his  taste  is  formed  and 
very  severe;  but  he  differs  often  from  great  profes- 
sional critics.  No  doubt  he  is  ahead  of  his  generation 
rather,  as  all  really  swell  artists  are.  His  painting 
I  think  is  beautiful.  He  is  full  of  ideas  —  he  is,  in 
fact,  a  painter  of  ideas.  I  think  he  is  in  a  transi- 
tion state  about  religion,  though,  of  course,  not  a 
Christian  at  all.  He  is  a  rationalist;  and  last  week 
he  said,  *  We  must  stick  to  earth,  but  not  forget  there 
are  mountains  on  it.' 

**  He  hates  metaphysics,  and  doesn't  pretend  to 
understand  them,  and  doesn't  believe  in  souls.  But 
he  keeps  an  open  mind,  and  is  always  perfectly  re- 
spectful to  everything  but  humbug.  He  hates  that 
as  much  as  you  do.  I  am  reading  Schopenhauer,  and 
other  favourite  writers  of  his.  They  are,  I  hope,  kill- 
ing all  the  stuffy,  silly  germs  that  have  collected  in 
my  mind. 

* '  But  I  must  tell  you  of  the  things  I  love  best  here 
—  just  as  they  flashed  to  me  —  to  be  part  of  me  for- 
evermore. 


256  THE  JOY  OF  YOUTH 

"  The  Campanile  of  Giotto.  It  is  covered  with 
marble  the  colour  of  flower-petals.  And  in  the 
Duomo  that  I  wrote  about,  the  unfinished  Pieta  by 
Michelangelo.  It  ought  to  be  on  his  tomb  at  Santa 
Croce.  A  fearfully  sad  spirit  seems  to  brood  over 
it.  And  Vasari  knew  it  should  be  there;  but  they 
put  up  a  monument  by  Vasari  himself  instead  —  a 
thing  of  no  great  account. 

*'  Santa  Croce  is  a  noble  old  church,  and  full  of 
light,  which  the  others  are  not. 

"  Then  the  gates  of  the  Baptistery  of  Ghiberti. 
This  is  a  very  ancient  building,  and  Bertram  told  me 
a  most  interesting  thing  about  it.  When  Brunel- 
leschi  wanted  to  learn  how  to  build  the  glorious  dome 
of  the  cathedral,  he  went  to  Rome  to  find  a  way.  But 
he  couldn't  find  a  way  in  Rome.  Then  he  came  back 
to  Firenze  and  discovered  the  secret  at  his  very  door 
—  in  the  roof  of  the  Baptistery !  Evolution  is  work- 
ing like  that  everywhere,  all  round  us  in  nature  and 
art  and  life.  The  foundations  of  Vanestowe  were 
laid  when  the  first  Stone  Man  built  his  hut.  I'm  a 
confirmed  evolutionist,  you  see! 

"  Then  there  is  the  face  of  Santa  Maria  Novella 
quite  close  to  us  here  —  like  wonderful  old  ivory,  rich 
and  rare  —  battered  and  beautiful,  and  patient  and 
enduring.  Little  yellow  flowers  climb  along  rag- 
gedly high  up  on  its  face.  I  never  know  if  I  love 
it  best  when  the  early  morning  light  comes  to  it, 
or  at  night  against  a  glimmer  of  stars.  Then  it  is 
very  solemn,  and  seems  to  melt  away  into  the  dark- 
ness and  belong  to  celestial  places.  You  feel  there 
is  nothing  between  it  and  Heaven. 

' '  Then   there   is   the   Bigallo  —  a   dear,    desirable 


LOVEDAY  TO  RALEGH       257 

building  among  the  giants  —  an  intimate,  understand- 
able, friendly  little  place  that  my  heart  went  out  to 
the  first  moment  I  saw  it.  This  is  my  first  and  dear- 
est love. 

"  I'll  go  on  with  my  favourite  statues  and  pic- 
tures in  the  next  letter,  if  you're  interested. 

"  We  must,  mnst,  MUST  have  some  statues  at 
Vanestowe,  Sweetheart.  After  you  have  once  been 
here  and  seen  Donatello  and  Michelangelo  and  the 
antique,  you'll  simply  hate  those  rows  of  stags* 
heads,  and  spears,  and  helmets,  and  horrors.  Vane- 
stowe is  the  very  hall  of  halls  for  big,  grand  things ; 
and  as  there  are  about  five  hundred  poor  artists  en- 
gaged always  here  in  copying  statues  and  pictures, 
they  can  most  easily  be  got. 

' '  Tell  Nina  I  shall  call  her  '  my  hated  rival  ' ! 
I'm  so  glad  she's  being  so  jolly.  I  do  honestly  be- 
lieve in  some  of  her  manifestations,  she  would  have 
been  more  precious  to  you  than  I;  but  not  in  all. 
She  couldn't  worship  my  darling  boy  like  his  Love- 
day  does  and  always,  always  will. 

*'P.  S. — 'As  you  are  so  fearfully  commanding,  of 
course  I  won't  go  again  to  Mrs.  Faustina  Forbes. 
But  it  seems  narrow  and  silly  of  a  great,  strong  man 
to  bully  a  poor  female  thing  whose  only  fault  was 
a  weakness  for  his  sex!  " 


CHAPTER  XXIX 

demeter  and  abbas 

"  Albergo  Athena, 

"  Firenze. 
"  Dear  Bertram, — 

"  To-morrow  is  your  birthday,  and  I  write 
to  wish  you  very  many  happy  returns  of  it.  You 
always  seem  rather  old  and  wise  to  me,  though  you 
can't  be  really,  or  you  wouldn't  have  wasted  so  much 
time  on  a  very  stupid  woman.  I  want  you  to  believe 
that  I  am  deeply  grateful  in  ray  way;  but  one  can't 
always  be  saying  '  Thank  you.' 

"  Of  course,  work  goes  on,  and  I  am  retracing  all 
the  old  ground  as  best  I  can  without  you.  It  is  dif- 
ferent, though.  In  fact,  I  miss  you  very  much  in- 
deed. I  don't  tell  you  this  as  a  piece  of  news,  for 
you  know  it  exceedingly  well;  I  merely  confirm  it. 

"  We  are  going  to  Como  pr&sently.  There  are 
•some  friends  of  Stella's  at  Cadenaggio,  so  it  is  set- 
tled that  we  spend  a  few  weeks  there  till  we  are 
roasted  out.  Then  I  go  home,  and  they  go  to 
Axenfels. 

"  I  am  out  of  heart  about  my  Italian.  I  am  also 
out  of  heart  about  my  poetry.  It  seems  absurd  to 
send  you  a  rhyme  after  refusing  to  let  you  see  one 
line  until  now.  But  I  promised  you  a  birthday  pres- 
ent, and  so  I  must  keep  my  word.     I  can't  give  a 


DEMETER  AND  ABBAS       259 

selfish  creature  like  you  anything  you  could  possi- 
sibly  want,  as  you  never  deny  yourself  anything  in 
the  world  that  money  can  buy,  so  I  send  you  a  thing 
that  has  no  value  of  any  sort  or  kind.  It  was  in- 
spired by  your  picture  of  '  Demeter  and  Abbas.' 
Tear  it  up  quick  as  soon  as  you've  read  it,  and  don't 
think  about  it  any  more. 

"  DEMETER  AND  ABBAS. 

"  On  a  fair  day,  Demeter,  wandering 
And  wearied,  came  into  a  dingle  deep, 
Where  leapt  the  crystal  of  a  secret  spring, 
And  countless  starry  blossoms  woke  from  sleep. 
The  Mother  smiled  and  took  great  joy  to  find 
A  little  resting-place  so  fitted  to  her  mind. 

"  Straight  from  the  cold,  sweet  cisterns  of  the  earth 
That  fountain  leapt,  the  goddess  longed  to  taste; 
But  first  she  ministered  to  the  sad  dearth 
Of  a   blue   hyacinth;    then,   without   haste, 
Made  tender  quest,  to  see  if  it  were  well 
With  every  precious  thing  that  homed  upon   the  dell. 

"  She  stroked  the  golden  saxifrage  that  hung 
Over  the  fountain;  many  a  primrose  bright 
Trembled  beneath  her  hand;   aloft,  among 
The  lemon  catkins,  sparks  of  crimson  light 
The  goddess  counted,  knowing  that  in  these 
Lay  hid  the  harvest  sweet  of  all  those  hazel  trees. 

"  The  dim  wood-rush,  the  dewy  moschatel. 
The  sun-bright  king-cup  and  the  orchis  sweet, 
The  least  campanula  with  azure  bell. 
And  the  veined  violet,  kissed  her  tired  feet. 
Sure  the  forget-me-not  had  never  known 
That  Dame  Demeter's  eves  were  bluer  than  her  own. 


260         THE  JOY  OF  YOUTH 

"  Now  sat  she  down  and  arched  her  stately  palm 
To  make  a  ready  cup  whence  she  might  drink; 
Whereon  there  swam,  without  a  thought  of  harm, 
A  fleet  of  shining  minnows   to  the  brink; 
Touched  her  white  hand,  and  with  devout  surprise 
Stared  up,  a  humble  love  in  all  their  goggled  eyes. 

"  Alas !    that  on  an  hour  so  gracious,  fair 
And  comely  falls  a  shade:   it  must  be  told 
How  laughter  shrill  awoke  the  ambient  air. 
And  echoed  rude  and  rash  and  over-bold. 
A  naked,  human  boy  the  reeds  among 
Made  faces  and  poked  out  his  naughty  little  tongue. 

"  Demeter,  scarcely  used  to  infant  slight  — 
For  sweet  Persephone  and  griefs  to  come 
Were  hidden  still  within  uncertain  light 
Of  future  time  —  the   urchin  ordered  home. 
But  little  Abbas  laughed  and  disobeyed. 
For  at  her  lovely  look,  what  child  could  be  afraid? 

"  '  Then  shalt  thou  be  a  human  boy  no  more !  ' 
Quoth  the  great  goddess,  '  but  a  plague  and  pest 
To  every  traveller  about  this  shore; 
To  all  who  hither  come  in  thirsty  quest 
Of  these  bright  waters.     Henceforth,  prone  and  mute, 
Thou  art,  rude  little  rogue,  a  scarlet-crested  newt!  ' 

"  With  but  one  cry,  poor  Abbas  down  and  down 
Sank  through  the  silver  to  the  amber  sands 
Beneath  the  fountain;   changed  from  pink  to  brown; 
Put  forth  small  paws  instead  of  feet  and  hands; 
Dwindled  to  inches  three,  while,  like  a  flame 
Along  his  back  and  tail,  a  scarlet  crest  there  came. 

"  Now,  when  the  way-worn  traveller  runs  to  sip. 
And  bends  to  touch  the  sparkling  crystal  clear. 
Young  Abbas  creeps  upon  his  open  lip. 
Whereon  he  leaps  with  horror  or  with  fear. 


DEMETER  AND  ABBAS       261 

But  should  this  hap  to  you,  feel  no  annoy; 
That  scarlet-crested  newt  was  once  a  little  boy. 

**  Good-bye.     I    hope   you    are   making   something 
beautiful  at  Siena. 

"  Sincerely  yours, 

*'  Loved  AY  Merton." 


CHAPTER  XXX 

bertram  to  loveday 

"  Siena. 
"  Dear  Loveday, — 

"  What  a  birthday  present!  It  is  worth 
living  twenty-seven  years  to  get  such  a  precious  poem. 
You  have  made  something  much  lovelier  than  my  pic- 
ture, and  if  you  can  do  a  tiny  thing  like  this  so 
daintily  and  deftly,  I  am  very  sure  you  could  make 
big  things  too  —  great  big  beautiful  things.  If  I 
thought  that  by  stopping  away  I  should  tempt  you 
to  send  me  some  more  verses,  I  would  stop  away. 
But  I  know  you  won 't,  so  I  shall  come  back  to  Firenze 
and  beg  for  some  more. 

"  The  thing  I  was  here  to  do  came  off,  and  as 
there's  another  thing  I  want  to  (for  my  Prome- 
theus), and  it  happens  to  lie  quite  near  Cadenaggio, 
might,  if  '  the  Apennine  '  permitted  it,  spend  a  day 
or  two  there  with  you  all,  and  show  you  a  few  visions 
in  the  mountains  you  would  otherwise  not  see.  I'm 
assuming  you  would  like  to  turn  the  tables  and  take 
me  out  among  the  wild  flowers  and  clamber  aloft  to 
the  last  little  table-cloths  of  snow  that  are  still  lying 
spread  for  wanderers'  luncheons  on  the  heights  round 
Como. 

"I've  met  another  metaphysician  —  a  disciple  of 
the  late  Professor  William  James:  and  vou've  met 


BERTRAM  TO  LOVEDAY      263 

him,  too !  It  is  that  distinguished  American  who  was 
at  the  Mackinders',  and  asked  you  if  you'd  done 
anything  supreme,  and  didn't  realise  that  the  mere 
fact  of  your  being  alive  was  a  supreme  performance 
on  your  part.  James  had  his  mighty  artist  brother's 
subtlety  of  mind,  but  lacked  Henry's  Greek  per- 
spicuity and  clearness.  Yes,  he  is  amazingly  direct, 
though  people  don't  think  he  is.  He  leaves  no  loop- 
hole—  scorns  fog  and  mist,  clears  up  as  he  goes  on. 
William  sits  on  the  fence,  and  ultimately  slides  down 
on  the  side  of  deity  —  rather  as  a  man  goes  into 
a  field  where  he  suspects  there  may  be  a  bad-tem- 
pered bull.  I've  read  his  essay  on  a  Future  Life  — 
cautious,  timorous,  even  cowardly.  These  metaphy- 
sicians won't  see  that  for  practical  purposes  there 
can  be  no  next  world,  if  we  are  to  enter  it  without  any 
conscious  knowledge  of  the  last.  They  won't  con- 
cede that,  yet  without  it  a  future  life  is  merely,  being 
born  again  without  one  link  to  bind  us  to  the  past. 
If  Bertram  Dangerfield  is  coming  to  the  scratch  once 
more  in  a  new  environment,  after  he  is  obliterated 
from  this  one,  and  if  not  one  stain  or  tincture  is  to 
remain  of  this  one  after  Lethe  has  been  drunk,  then 
for  every  practical  and  rational  purpose  there  is  no 
next  world  for  Bertram  Dangerfield.  A  flower  sets 
its  seed  and  perishes.  The  seed  may  hand  on  the 
race  of  the  plant ;  but  the  flower  that  set  it  is  not  go- 
ing to  have  any  resurrection. 

*'  Then  my  new  friend  gave  me  Hobhouse  —  his 
Morals  in  Evolution  —  a  grand  book  full  of  splendid 
things  —  a  master's  book. 

"  It 's  only  the  summing-up  that  leaves  you  cold  — 
so  guarded.     He  says  this :  — '  It  is,  at  any  rate,  some- 


264  THE  JOY  OF  YOUTH 

thing  to  learn  —  as,  if  our  present  conclusion  is 
sound,  we  do  learn  —  that  this  slowly  wrought-out 
dominance  of  mind  in  things  is  the  central  fact  in 
evolution.  For,  if  this  be  true,  it  is  the  germ  of 
a  religion  and  an  ethics  which  are  as  far  removed 
from  materialism  as  from  the  optimistic  teleology  of 
the  metaphysician,  or  the  half  naive  creed  of  the 
churches.'  Hedging  —  hedging  —  hedging.  I  sup- 
pose everybody  hedges  after  they  are  forty.  This 
line  of  Hobhouse's  is  merely  theism — -no  more,  no 
less  —  awfully  disappointing  after  the  magnificence 
of  the  book. 

"  But  we  artists — lyou  and  I  and  the  others  —  we 
don 't  hedge.  We  '  make  a  spoon  or  spoil  a  horn  ' ; 
and  if  we're  smashed  to-day,  we're  none  the  less 
soaring  again  to-morrow.  We  sink  lower  than  the 
rest  of  the  world,  and  suffer  pains  beside  which  those 
of  hell  are  pleasures;  but  then  we  rush  up  higher  — 
a  million  times  higher  than  any  other  sort  of  spirit, 
and  have  our  moments  compared  to  which  the  Sev- 
enth Heaven  would  be  merely  a  Mackinder  '  Sunday 
at  Home. ' 

' '  Art  frees  us  —  art  alone  is  free.  It  is  the  sole 
occupation  of  man  wherein  time  and  space  are  as 
nothing  —  wherein  he  finds  absolute  liberty  to  reach 
the  utmost  limits  of  his  unconditioned  powers.  Only 
through  the  gates  of  art  can  we  join  hands  with  the 
Greeks  and  win  a  little  of  their  pagan  frankness  and 
escape  the  eternal  lie.  Nature's  self  has  fallen  in 
love  with  art  and  given  her  body  and  soul  to  the 
artist.     None  else  possesses  her  as  he  can. 

"  Hobhouse  set  me  thinking  on  the  great  part  that 
evolution   plays   in   art  —  a   part  the   critics   rather 


BERTRAM  TO  LOVEDAY      265 

slight,  because  they  generally  have  no  feeling  for 
the  science  of  art.  We've  always  got  to  remember 
what  went  before  everything,  if  we  want  to  under- 
stand it  and  be  just.  The  root  is  out  of  sight,  but 
where  would  the  branch  be  without  it,  and  where 
the  fruit  without  the  bough?  Evolution  is  working 
everywhere,  not  only  pushing  forward,  but  also  strug- 
gling helplessly  in  blind  alleys.  She's  doing  a  lot 
in  blind  alleys  of  art  just  now,  especially  here  in 
Italy.  The  modern  Italian  defiles  every  medium  he 
touches  —  from  marble  to  poetry.  But  I  suppose  the 
blind  alleys  have  to  be  explored  for  their  possibili- 
ties. I  repeat  that  a  sense  of  evolution  makes  us 
just,  and  teaches  us  to  give  every  man  his  due. 
Copernicus  was  nought  without  Regiomontanus,  and 
he  in  his  turn  owed  as  much  to  Purbach,  who  taught 
him  all  he  knew  himself.  It  is  just  that  all  through 
the  piece  —  a  question  of  lenses ;  but  when  the 
microscope  shows  us  a  miracle,  or  the  telescope  sepa- 
rates a  twin  star,  who  remembers  to  bless  the  man 
who  ground  the  glass  so  well  and  truly?  Do  you 
know  Chamberlain's  famous  book — <a  world  book  — 
only  spoilt  by  one  fact  —  that  Roosevelt  likes  it  ?  It 
seems  so  absurd  to  like  anything  that  Roosevelt  likes. 
But  Chamberlain  is  a  mighty  genius,  and  he  will  help 
us  all  to  fall  in  love  with  the  Germans  soon  —  as  I 
did  long  ago.  Chamberlain  says  that  there's  no 
progress  beyond  Homer  and  Michelangelo  and  Bach. 
You  see  what  he  means?  In  a  sense,  there  is  not. 
But  it  is  what  ^schylus  did  with  Homer's  gods  and 
goddesses  that  I'm  arguing  for.  That  was  evolu- 
tion. 

*'  Another  happy  thought:     Art's   children   have 


266  THE  JOY  OF  YOUTH 

never  been  absent  from  the  earth  since  conscious  in- 
telligence came  to  it,  and  man  first  descended  from 
the  trees  and  began  to  stand  upright  and  think. 
The  swells  overlap  forever ;  and  they  did  so,  no  doubt, 
long  before  history  chronicled  their  achievements. 
The  world  has  never  been  quite  starved  of  great 
artists  even  in  its  lean  centuries.  The  year  that 
Michelangelo  died,  Shakespeare  was  born;  Calderon 
closed  his  eyes  as  Bach  opened  his ;  I  was  born  —  but 
if  you  look  up  the  year  1886,  you'll  see  what  great 
artist  made  way  for  me. 

"  The  laws  of  genius  have  not  been  worked  out 
yet;  but,  of  course,  they  will  be.  Kant  calls  it  *  the 
unborn  quality  by  which  nature  prescribes  the  rule 
to  art. '  For  '  the  rule  '  I  should  say  '  a  road. '  Gen- 
ius is  only  one  road  of  many  —  just  a  natural  thing, 
like  idiocy  or  the  norm  of  mind. 

"  There  is  a  bore  here,  and  I  have  followed  Pater's 
example  and  pretended  to  be  a  greater  fool  than  I 
am,  and  so  out-bored  him.  The  experiment  was 
splendidly  successful.  You  remember  Pater  used  to 
pretend  mediocrity,  and  would  agree  with  the  veriest 
duffer,  because  bitter  experience  had  taught  him  the 
folly  of  doing  anything  else.  You  can  never  make 
a  fool  know  that  he's  a  fool,  and  to  try  to  do  so  is 
to  be  merely  a  fool  yourself.  So  when  this  man  be- 
gan bothering  me  about  archaic  art,  I  looked  blank, 
and  told  him  that  I  was  not  interested  in  the  old  rub- 
bish painted  by  monks  and  saints.  Naturally  he 
thought  I  was  weak  in  my  head,  so  I  escaped  him. 
To  out-bore  bores  is  a  very  fine  art,  and  worth  prac- 
tising.    You  need  it  at  every  turn  in  this  world. 

*  *  You  need  it  now ;  but  a  bore  on  paper  can  al- 


BERTRAM  TO  LOVEDAY      267 

ways  be  treated  as  he  deserves  to  be,  and  shut  up  or 
torn  up  as  the  case  demands. 

**  Loveday,  I  have  never,  never  had  a  gift  that  was 
so  welcome  as  your  poem.     It  is  beautiful,  and  part 
of  yourself.     To  say  that  only  you  could  have  writ- 
ten it  just  like  that  is  to  praise  it  very  much. 
"  Gratefully  yours, 

*'  Bertram  Dangerfield.  " 


CHAPTER  XXXI 

MICHELANGELO 

Dangerfield  came  back,  and  Stella  and  Annette  de- 
plored it. 

"  We  must  look  after  her  a  little  more  ourselves 
as  long  as  we  stop  here,"  said  the  elder  to  her  sis- 
ter; and  when  Loveday  announced  that  on  the  fol- 
lowing day  she  and  Dangerfield  were  going  to  work 
at  Michelangelo,  to  her  surprise,  Miss  Neill-Savage 
announced  that  she  looked  forward  to  doing  the  like. 
"  I've  been  meaning  to  refresh  my  memory  for 
some  time, ' '  she  said.  * '  The  Academia,  of  course  ?  ' ' 
"Yes,  and  the  Bargello  and  the  Sacristy  of  San 
Lorenzo,"  said  Loveday. 

"  Into  the  Medici  Chapel  I  don't  go,"  answered 
the  elder  lady.  "  I  visited  it  many  years  ago,  and 
it  struck  so  cold  that  I  had  a  chill  which  took  me  a 
month  to  throw  off.  You  can  see  the  casts  of  the 
tombs  at  the  Academia." 

"  I  'm  afraid  Bertram  won 't  be  satisfied  with  those. 
I've  enjoyed  everything  already;  but  this  time  we're 
going  in  a  solemn  and  industrious  spirit," 

They  found  the  painter  at  the  Bargello  chatting 
with  a  brother  artist  who  was  making  a  large  draw- 
ing of  the  courtyard.  He  showed  no  surprise  at 
seeing  Loveday 's  friend,  and  when  Stella  explained 
that  she  preferred  Donatello  to  the  mightier  man,  he 


MICHELANGELO  269 

admitted  that  many  agreed  with  her,  and  that  he 
often  did  himself. 

*'  It  all  depends  on  moods,"  he  said.  '^  Sometimes 
your  mood  inclines  you  one  way,  sometimes  another." 

* '  What  if  your  mood  inclines  you  wrong  ?  ' '  asked 
Loveday. 

"  Then  you  know  you  are  artistically  ill,  and  need 
physic.     But  there's  a  wide  range  of  the  best." 

They  did  not  stop  long  at  the  Bargello,  but  long 
enough  for  Bertram  to  trouble  Miss  Neill-Savage. 
He  decried  the  Dionysus  very  heartily. 

"  Michelangelo  didn't  know  the  meaning  of 
Dionysus,"  he  told  them.  "  His  generation  had  lost 
the  cult,  and  it  was  left  for  a  later  one  to  rediscover 
it.  Upstairs  you  can  see  Sansovino's  Bacchus. 
That's  a  thousand  times  better.  It  has  the  joy  of 
life,  and  even  a  hint  of  fearful  power.  It  is  clean, 
alert,  swift,  and  not  drunken.  He,  too,  has  a  faun, 
and  his  faun  is  better  than  Michelangelo's." 

Loveday  insisted  on  visiting  this  work,  and  as  they 
went,  Bertram  hurt  Stella,  and  she  showed  it. 

"  Greek  religion  was  responsible  for  much  of  the 
grandest  art  in  the  world,"  said  Bertram,  "  so  you 
can  forgive  it  everything.  Their  art  was  the  reward 
of  adoration  of  beauty.  But  Christianity  mothered 
no  great  art.  She  feared  to  look  upon  the  human 
body.  Its  light  dazzled  her,  so  she  turned  its  glory 
into  sin  and  made  the  clean  unclean.  Therefore  she 
was  properly  cursed  with  barrenness  —  the  punish- 
ment for  despising  beauty." 

"  Indeed,  that  is  nonsense,"  said  Stella,  sharply. 
**  To  sweep  away  all  Christian  art  in  that  hoity-toity 
fashion!  " 


270         THE  JOY  OF  YOUTH 

"  You  don't  understand.  I  was  going  to  explain. 
What  I  mean  is  that  Christianity  had  no  resources 
in  herself.  The  Renaissance  has,  I  grant,  adorned 
and  bedecked  Christianity  with  unutterable  loveli- 
ness. But  where  did  that  loveliness  come  from? 
From  the  things  that  Christianity  hates.  It  was  not 
she  that  wakened  men  and  led  them  back  to  the 
Golden  Age.  It  was  the  humanist  spirit,  moving  like 
sunshine  on  the  face  of  the  dark  medigeval  waters. 
Into  the  old  was  woven  the  new;  but  it  is  purely  a 
matter  of  opinion  whether  the  new  spirit,  for  which 
Christianity  and  progress  were  responsible,  bore  a 
better  art.  The  dynamic  against  the  static  —  the  un- 
rest, wonder,  seeking,  sorrowing,  writhing  of  the 
Renaissance  against  the  orbicular  completeness,  sure- 
ness,  directness  of  the  Greeks.  To  me  the  difference 
between  darkness  and  light." 

*'  If  you  were  a  Christian,  you  would  see  at  a 
glance  the  gulf  fixed  between  them,"  said  Miss  Neill- 
Savage,  severely  and  almost  scornfully.  "  Men  knew 
that  they  had  souls  at  the  Renaissance,  and  it  is  that 
knowledge  that  makes  the  difference  and  lifts  their 
art  far,  far  above  the  best  of  pagan  things.  You  are 
a  sad  materialist.  And  I  like  Michelangelo's  Bac- 
chus much  better  than  this,  just  because  he  exposes 
the  worthless  pretensions  of  the  old  religion  and 
makes  the  god  little  more  than  a  sensuous,  soulless 
imbecile. ' ' 

But  the  painter  was  not  prepared  to  answer  her 
attack,  for  it  entailed  a  lengthy  exposition.  More- 
over, the  lady  stood  very  fairly  for  the  other  side. 
It  was  clear  that  Dionysus  could  by  no  possibility  be 
made  to  appeal  to  Miss  Neill-Savage  and  her  order. 


MICHELANGELO  271 

' '  We  '11  stick  to  Michelangelo,  then, ' '  he  said,  ' '  and 
see  life  with  his  sad  and  doubtful  eyes." 

They  went  to  the  Academia,  and  he  showed  them 
those  dim,  stormy  monsters  rescued  from  base  uses  at 
the  Bobili.  They  considered  the  David,  and  Miss 
Neill-Savage  argued  that  the  artist  could  work  in  the 
spirit  of  the  Old  Testament  as  well  as  of  the  New. 

Dangerfield  asked  her  if  she  were  familiar  with  the 
master's  sonnets,  and  she  answered  that  she  was  not. 
When,  therefore,  she  left  them,  and  they  went  to  the 
Sacristy  alone,  he  called  at  a  book-shop  and  bought 
the  translations  of  Symonds. 

**  They'll  puzzle  her  like  the  deuce,"  he  said; 
**  and  if  she  reads  them,  she'll  see  that  the  poet 
wasn't  all  Christian,  at  any  rate.  The  woe  of  the 
world  never  sank  deeper  into  a  great  man's  spirit 
than  it  sank  into  his ;  but  I  shall  always  say  that  mar- 
ble isn't  the  right  medium  for  agony.  You  would 
think  that  sorrow  had  not  yet  homed  upon  earth  when 
the  Greeks  made  their  best;  but  when  this  man 
worked,  you  would  suppose  that  sorrow  was  the  only 
goddess  humanity  served.  He  whetted  his  chisel 
with  tears ;  he  worked  in  a  fury  of  anguish  sometimes 
— 'rushed  to  work  as  many  men  do  to  drink  —  to  es- 
cape the  gnawing  torture  of  his  own  thoughts.  I 
think  that  explains  so  many  incomplete  things.  They 
say  he  left  this  leonine  head  of  the  Twilight  un- 
finished—  to  get  colour.  That's  the  way  great  crit- 
ics talk.  But  I  am  a  rationalist,  and  I  believe  that 
he  worked  it  a  shadow  too  small  for  the  enormous 
torso,  and  dared  not  take  another  grain  of  marble 
dust  off  it.  The  awful  fire  that  burned  in  him  and 
through  him  —  his  conquering  demon  that  drove  him 


272  THE  JOY  OF  YOUTH 

to  begin  eternally  —  led  him  into  a  frenzied  attack 
on  the  marble  sometimes;  and  sometimes,  like  lesser 
men,  being  human,  he  erred.  He  would  have  been 
the  first  to  confess  it,  and  his  errors  were  among  his 
sadnesses.     I  am  an  artist,  and  know.'V 

"  But  he's  sublime  always,"  she  said,  "  I  find 
myself  whispering  before  him.  You  don't  whisper 
before  any  of  the  others." 

"To  be  Fate-haunted  and  struggling  against 
mighty  powers  mightily  is  sublime.  That's  what  he 
was  doing,  and  that's  what  his  statues  are  doing. 
He  martyrs  them.  They're  always  fighting  a  losing 
battle.  You  want  to  see  '  Dawn  '  in  the  twilight  of 
morning  to  understand  her.  Talk  of  Miss  Neill-Sav- 
age's  chill!  The  risen  sun  can't  warm  you  very 
soon  after  you  come  to  this  stone  in  the  first  light  of 
day.  I  was  allowed  to  keep  vigil  here,  as  a  great 
favour,  and  I  have  seen  morning  steal  to  her.  I've 
seen  her  wake  on  her  rack  and  move!  " 

They  stood  silent  for  a  time. 

"  Michelangelo's  head  was  Greek;  his  heart  was 
Renaissance  humanist  —  tinctured  with  all  that  those 
throbbing  times  stood  for,"  declared  Bertram.  "  I 
suppose,  from  a  pure  art  point  of  view,  you  would 
say  he  was  cursed  with  such  a  mighty  weight  of 
Aidos  or  compassion,  that  he  had  to  knead  sorrow  in- 
to the  very  substance  of  his  ideal  beauty.  He  could 
not  picture  one  without  the  other.  The  *  Dawn  '  is 
his  masterpiece  to  me.  She  is  waking  to  her  work 
a  virgin,  and  terribly  dreading  it.  She  will  never 
sleep  again ;  she  will  never  be  like  Night,  the  mother, 
her  labours  ended  and  her  part  in  the  universal  trag- 
edy played.     And  what  was  the  mother's  reward,  by 


MICHELANGELO  273 

the  way  ?  Bliss  and  the  joys  of  Heaven  ?  No  — 
eternal  sleep  and  unconsciousness  —  a  pagan  ideal. 
These  women  are  in  the  grand  manner  of  the  Greek 
goddesses.  You  cannot  love  them.  They  stand  for 
a  power  to  will  and  suffer  beyond  the  lot  of  men. ' ' 

"  The  Pieta  at  Rome  is  more  to  me,"  she  said, 
"  though  I  have  only  seen  pictures  and  casts." 

"  It  is  very  great,  if  you  regard  it  as  universal  and 
not  particular,"  he  said. 

"  You  cannot  deny  the  Christian  inspiration  of 
that?  "  she  asked. 

"  The  inspiration  is  hidden.  It  may  have  been 
Christian,  or  it  may  have  been  personal.  One  never 
knows  the  seed  from  which  a  particular  flower  of  art 
grows.  The  spirit  is  divinely  maternal  —  yes,  and 
Christian  too.     It  would  be  churlish  to  deny  it." 

He  turned  to  the  book  of  sornets. 

"  Again  and  again  at  the  end  he  cries  for  increased 
faith.  Not  a  mere  attitude  with  such  a  man  —  not  a 
pose  to  make  sonnets  from.  He  really  felt  the  dark- 
ness of  doubt ;  but  I  don 't  suppose  that  he  ever  re- 
flected as  to  what  his  religion  had  done  for  his  art. 
He  is  pleading  for  faith  and  protesting  that  it  is  his 
own  fault  he  lacks  it.  He  was  a  pagan,  and  didn't 
know  it. 

"  That  gift  of  gifts,  the  rarer  'tis,  the  more 
I  count  it  great;  more  great,  because  to  earth 
Without  it  neither  peace  nor  joy  is  given." 

Little  of  peace  or  joy  had  he,  and  thought,  perhaps, 
that  his  misery  was  the  result  of  weak  faith,  instead 
of  springing  from  too  much." 


274         THE  JOY  OF  YOUTH 

"  Wasn't  he  happier  at  the  end?  "  she  asked;  but 
the  other  shook  his  head. 

"  I  used  to  like  to  think  that  old  age  meant  some- 
thing worth  having  for  him,  when  the  fire  of  creative 
genius,  that  had  torn  him  like  the  vulture  tore  Prome- 
theus, was  cold  and  the  world  had  passed  beyond  his 
ken.  I  used  to  fancy  him  in  a  sort  of  twilight  happi- 
ness still  making  beautiful  things  with  words,  though 
to  fight  the  eternal  marble  was  beyond  his  power. 
But  the  last  sonnets  show  him  still  himself,  beating 
the  bars  —  impatient  — » fiery  —  waiting  —  ill  con- 
tent." 

He  read  again  from  the  little  book :  — 

"  Blind  is  the  world ;    and  evil  here  below 
O'erwhelms  and  triumphs  over  honesty: 
The  light  is  quenched;   quenclied  too  is  bravery; 
Lies  reign,  and  truth  hath  ceased  her  face  to  show. 

"  When  will  the  day  dawn,  Lord,  for  which  he  waits 
Who  trusts  in  Thee?     Lo,  this  prolonged  delay 
Destroys  all  hope  and  robs  the  soul  of  life." 

But  his  last  poems  were  all  prayers  —  humble,  trust- 
ful, even  hopeful.  I  suppose  he  died  a  devout  and 
perfect  Christian." 

"  If  he  had  only  been  born  a  Greek,"  said  Loveday, 
"  how  much  happier  his  mighty  spirit  would  have 
been !  ' ' 

"  And  how  much  greater  his  art.  That  holds  of 
Goethe,  too.  But  Goethe  fought  his  way  back  to  the 
pagan  standpoint  —  for  a  time,  at  any  rate.  The 
old  gods  were  his  brothers  and  sisters.  He  belonged 
to  them  in  spirit  always.     He  had  a  sunnier  heart. 


MICHELANGELO  275 

He  was  never  morbid  —  a  good  man  of  business  even 

—  and  made  art  of  every  twinge  of  emotion.  He 
couldn't  have  taken  his  country's  troubles  to  heart 
as  Michelangelo  did,  and  let  them  come  between  him 
and  making  of  beautiful  things.  He  didn't  feel  as 
much  even  as  I  feel  about  Eome.  He  had  the  im- 
mense selfishness  and  self-control  only  to  let  that 
dominate  him  which  he  thought  worth  while.  He 
was  never  obsessed  by  anything  that  didn't  matter 

—  except  in  his  valiant  and  futile  attempt  to  learn 
to  paint.  Self-culture  was  his  god,  and  the  world 
might  go  to  rack  and  ruin  as  long  as  that  business 
didn't  stand  still.  If  only  Winckelmann  had  met 
him  at  Rome  instead  of  being  murdered  at  Trieste! 
Even  at  Rome,  which  hurts  me  and  makes  me  mad, 
because  I  see  the  mark  of  the  Unclean  Animal  over 
everything,  and  feel  it  is  only  a  rubbish-heap  now  — 
a  plate  of  bones  that  Time  has  gnawed  and  deserted 

—  even  at  Rome,  Goethe  was  just  himself.  When  he 
went  into  the  Forum  there  were  no  hysterics!  And 
his  eyes  were  as  much  upon  the  weeds,  for  that  im- 
mortal, primitive,  vegetable  form  that  he  was  after, 
as  they  were  upon  the  ruins.  He  lacked  what  they 
call  the  historical  sense — 'the  pathos  of  history  that 
overwhelms  Michelangelo  didn't  touch  him;  but  in- 
stead he  had  a  glorious,  sure  instinct  for  nature  and 
a  hatred  for  everything  intrinsically  hideous,  that 
made  him  turn  from  archaic  art  of  every  sort  and 
only  concern  himself  with  the  best  that  man  had 
made." 

"  Didn't  the  archaic  interest  him?  "  she  asked,  and 
Bertram  declared  that  it  did  not. 

"  The  evolution  of  art  seldom  interests  a  creator," 


276  THE  JOY  OF  YOUTH 

he  said.  "  For  Goethe  art  clarified  life,  and  helped 
him  to  see  everything  in  its  true  perspective.  That 
was  what  the  much  mightier  soul  of  Michelangelo 
never  reached  to.  He  fretted  about  what  didn't  mat- 
ter a  button;  he  would  have  scorned  Goethe's  preoc- 
cupation with  science  as  folly,  and  held  the  passing 
political  tragedy  of  his  own  age  a  thousand  times  more 
important  than  any  discovery  of  the  principles  of 
light,  or  a  starting-point  for  green  things." 

"It  is  interesting  to  read  great  minds  before 
Michelangelo,"  said  Loveday.  "  Euskin  detests 
him." 

' '  Yes,  because  hosts  of  small  and  common  men  were 
led  astray  by  him,  and  tried  to  copy  the  work  of  his 
passion  without  feeling  his  passion.  Ruskin  ought 
to  have  understood.  Reynolds  came  here,  too,  and 
thought  he  liked  the  seventeenth-century  rubbish  bet- 
ter than  the  big  things!  Guido  and  Baroccio  and 
Vasari  he  praised.  He  held  John  of  Bologna  some- 
times greater  than  Michelangelo.  But  he  appreci- 
ated my  Masaccio,  and  glimpsed  his  mightiness;  and, 
at  the  end,  he  came  to  the  right  and  proper  attitude 
and  set  Michelangelo  above  them  all.  He  deliberately 
closed  his  public  career  with  that  sacred  name  on  his 
lips." 

"  That  was  fine,"  said  Loveday. 

They  spoke  of  Winckelmann  again. 

"  I  blush  for  being  rich  when  I  think  that  such  a 
man  was  poor,"  declared  the  painter.  "  The  im- 
mortal pagan  pretending  to  be  a  Catholic  —  to  get  to 
Rome!  And  is  his  masterpiece  the  worse  because  its 
very  creation  demanded  that  pretence  from  the  crea- 
tor?   You  can't  whitewash  it  or  talk  nonsense  about 


MICHELANGELO  277 

it.  It  was  a  splendid  lie,  and  magniliceutly  justified. 
It  stands  among  the  grand  lies  of  history." 

Before  he  left  her,  he  handed  her  a  slip  of  paper. 

"  A  rhyme  for  your  poem,"  he  said.  "  A  sonnet 
on  Michelangelo 's  '  Dawn. '  It  was  made  a  long  time 
ago,  in  the  first  hour  that  I  ever  saw  it." 

He  left  her,  and  she  stood  on  the  steps  of  Santa 
Maria  Novella  presently  and  read  it  to  the  noise  of 
Florence  surging  through  the  piazza. 

"  Sister  of  twilight  chill  and  shuddering  air, 
Stretched  desolate  upon  the  rack  of  morn; 
Thou  hooded  grief  from  mountain  marble  torn, 
Gazing  sad-lidded  on  the  sky's  despair, 
While  the  grey  stars,  like  tears,  descend  forlorn ; 
Earth's  broken  heart  and  man's  unsleeping  care 
Wait  on  thy  pillow,  crying  to  be  borne  — 
The  only  burden  thou  shalt  ever  bear. 
No  infant  hope  may  dream  on  thy  deep  breast; 
No  little  lip  may  soothe  with  infant  might 
Thy  mouth's  immortal  woe;   for  thee,  oppressed, 
Dawn  dim  epiphanies  beyond  all  light, 
Where  man's  long  agony  and  cry  for  rest 
But  torture  dayspring  into  darker  night." 

Why,  Loveday  knew  not,  but  the  sonnet,  instead 
of  bringing  back  Buonarroti's  "  Dawn,"  awoke  the 
memory  of  a  vanished  day,  and  she  stood  in  spirit 
and  looked  again  into  the  sweet,  haunted  eyes  of  Bot- 
ticelli's Yenus.  She  told  herself  that  the  picture 
stood  for  personal  tribulation,  and  would  evermore 
strike  sorrow's  chord  when  she  thought  upon  it.  The 
grief  of  the  marble  titans  was  the  world's  grief  j  the 
little  Venus  echoed  her  own. 


CHAPTER  XXXII 

WORRY 

**  If  you  must  go  to  Cadenaggio,  you  must,"  said 
Bertram.  '  *  But  it 's  all  English  —  pure,  unadulter- 
ated, solid,  conservative  English,  with  a  church  and 
a  chaplain,  and  golf  links,  and  everything  complete." 

"  We  must.  Stella  has  a  great  personal  friend 
there,  and  the  chaplain  is  the  personal  friend's  hus- 
band." 

"  Como  is  a  vision  of  glory,  and  the  walks  are  di- 
vine. I  was  painting  there  two  years  ago,  and  I  met  a 
bald,  breezy,  brave  Briton  in  the  garden,  and  he  asked 
me  my  handicap.  For  a  moment  I  failed  to  under- 
stand, then  had  an  inspiration,  and  explained  that  I 
didn't  play  golf.  His  frank,  blue  eyes  roamed  over 
mountains  and  lake  and  grew  clouded.  *  Not  play 
golf  ?  '  he  asked  blankly.  '  Then  what  on  earth  do  you 
come  here  for?  This  is  golf  or  nothing!  '  I  broke  it 
to  him  that  I  was  a  professional  painter,  and  he  grew 
gentle  and  moderated  his  attack,  as  one  does  before 
those  of  weak  mind.  He  was  a  real  good  chap,  and 
the  others  were  all  the  same  —  all  bald,  brave,  breezy, 
and  conservative.  And  the  dear  old  chaplain  was  the 
baldest,  bravest,  breeziest  of  them  all.  Jolly,  re- 
actionary men.  They  read  the  Daily  Mail  in  the 
morning,  and  in  the  evening,  if  not  too  weary,  they 
read  the  Dmly  Mail  again." 


WORRY  279 

**  Are  you  really  coming?  "  she  asked.  "  I  should 
dearly  like  it.  But  there's  not  the  least  reason  why 
you  should." 

' '  I  might  do  a  week  if  your  friends  won 't  be  nasty 
to  me.  They  are  getting  jolly  restive.  They  don't 
understand  our  friendship  in  the  least.  They  forget 
how  wise  they  were  when  they  were  young.  There's 
a  cliff  in  the  Val  Sanagra  I  tried  to  do,  and  failed. 
I  want  it  for  a  picture,  and  might,  of  course,  try 
again. ' ' 

But  Miss  Neill-Savage  liked  it  little  when  she 
heard  that  the  painter  was  coming  to  Como. 

"  It's  not  the  place  for  him,"  she  said  —  "  or  the 
people.  He'll  be  bored,  and  then  he'll  be  rude,  and 
doubtless  put  his  foot  in  it.  Besides,  what  does  he 
want  to  come  for?  " 

'*  To  paint  a  certain  thing  in  the  Val  Sanagra," 
explained  Loveday. 

Then  Annette  spoke : 

"  You  know  your  own  business,  my  dear,  and  I 
fancy  you  take  a  sort  of  stupid  pride  in  being  un- 
conventional, and  so  forth.  But  you'll  forgive  me  if 
I  say  it  is  a  pity.  You  are  putting  Stella  and  me  to 
a  good  deal  of  inconvenience  and  discomfort.  Not 
that  we  mind;  only  is  it  right?  " 

"It's  absolutely  right,"  declared  Loveday,  but  her 
lip  shook  for  a  second. 

When  she  was  gone,  the  sisters  discussed  her  with- 
out sympathy.  Indeed,  they  had  been  very  patient, 
but  their  patience  was  naturally,  exhausted. 

"  I  shall  write  as  strongly  as  I  can  to  Lady  Vane 
again,"  said  Annette. 

**  I  don't  know  —  the  whole  thing  is  very  danger- 


280  THE  JOY  OF  YOUTH 

ous  and  difficult.  You  remember  how  Sir  Ralegh's 
mother  answered  your  last  letter.  She  longs  to  break 
off  the  match.  This  will  only  be  another  pretext. 
She  never  liked  Loveday.  They  were  bound  to  be 
antipathetic.  And  if  you  can  make  the  man  see  with 
her  eyes — " 

"  Italy's  ruined  her,"  declared  Annette.  "  Italy 
and  this  wretched  painter  between  them.  Why  on 
earth  doesn't  Sir  Ralegh  come  out  or  order  her 
home?  " 

"  Because  he  doesn't  know  anything  whatever 
about  it.  Or  perhaps  —  it 's  a  horrid  thought  —  but 
perhaps  he  does  know  all  about  it,  and  is  giving  Love- 
day  rope  enough  to  hang  herself  with." 

The  other  shook  her  head. 

"  No  —  no.  He  isn't  that  sort.  He  certainly 
doesn't  know.  However,  I  shall  write  to  Lady  Vane. 
For  two  pins  I'd  write  to  her  son." 

"  For  heaven's  sake,  Annette  — !  You  see, 
when  it  comes  to  words,  there's  really  nothing  you 
can  say.  It's  only  a  most  unconventional  sort  of 
friendship.     There's  no  attachment." 

* '  There  must  be, ' '  said  the  younger.  * '  A  man  — 
a  young,  busy,  ambitious  man  like  Bertram  Danger- 
field  wouldn't  dance  across  Italy  with  any  girl  for 
friendship.  And  you  know  what  Cadenaggio  is.  If 
they  go  careering  about  together  all  alone,  everybody 
in  the  hotel  will  be  talking.  There  are  sure  to  be 
people  there  who  know  of  Sir  Ralegh's  engagement. 
No,  I  shall  write,  and  write  strongly.  She  ought  to 
get  a  definite  order  to  go  home,  and  if  Sir  Ralegh  is 
too  proud  to  send  it,  as  no  doubt  he  will  be,  then  the 
Admiral  ought  to  do  so. ' ' 


WORRY  281 

**  Why  not  write  to  him,  Annette?  " 

"  No,  I  write  to  Lady  Vane.  You  can  write  to 
Admiral  Champernowne.  I  tell  you  frankly  that  I 
think  it  would  be  a  good  thing  for  the  Vanes  if  this 
engagement  was  broken  off." 

"  For  heaven's  sake,  Annette —  !  Do  be  care- 
ful. It  is  not  for  us  to  think  about  it.  We  may  be 
ruining  young  lives.  Suppose  that  happened,  and 
Loveday's  career  was  shattered?  " 

"  It  would  be  her  own  fault  entirely.  I'm  feeling 
exceedingly  bitter.  Our  visit  to  Italy  has  largely 
been  spoiled  by  these  young  fools.  One  cannot  ig- 
nore the  responsibility." 

"  It  was  never  suggested  there  was  any." 

"  But  we  very  soon  found  out  that  it  existed. 
And  I  'm  not  at  all  sure  if  we  did  right  to  do  nothing. 
It's  a  hateful  business  altogether,  and  shows  great 
selfishness  and  bad  feeling,  in  my  opinion.  She  can't 
really  be  wrapt  up  in  her  betrothed  —  otherwise  she 
would  not  gaily  go  on  stopping  out  here ;  and  certainly 
she  would  not  devote  all  her  time  to  another  man." 

' '  You  can 't  say  she  does  that.  She  works  fearfully 
hard  in  her  own  way  —  at  culture  and  Italian,  and 
all  the  rest  of  it." 

"  Well,  there's  no  culture  at  Cadenaggio,"  declared 
Annette ;  ' '  and  if  he  stops  a  day  over  the  week,  I  shall 
speak  to  him.  I'm  old  enough  to  be  his  mother,  and 
I  shall  talk  very  straight  indeed,  and  not  mince 
words. ' ' 

"  He  doesn't  seem  to  realise  in  the  least." 

"  But  he  must  be  made  to  do  so.  These  artists  are 
all  half-baked  in  some  directions.  They're  selfish, 
narrow-minded  wretches.     They  feel  in  an  exagger- 


282  THE  JOY  OF  YOUTH 

ated  sort  of  ridiculous  way  about  everything  —  but 
other  people's  feelings.  They  never  consider  them  in 
the  least.  So  long  as  their  own  precious  nerves  and 
sensibilities  are  being  pandered  to,  all  the  rest  of 
mankind  may  go  hang.  In  fact,  they  are  a  very 
mixed  blessing,  and  certainly  no  blessing  at  all  to 
the  unfortunate  people  who  are  thrown  up  against 
them.  And  I'd  tell  him  so  as  soon  as  look  at  him. 
To  hear  him  talk  about  the  *  brave,  bald,  breezy  Eng- 
lishmen '  at  Cadenaggio  !  It's  so  supercilious  and 
insulting.  Especially  when  you  know  that  any  one 
of  them  would  be  worth  a  dozen  of  him,  if  it  came 
to  doing  anything  useful  and  heroic  and  gentle- 
manly! " 


CHAPTER  XXXIII 

IN   THE   HILLS 

A  MOUNTAIN,  whose  summits  and  highest  glens  were 
deep  in  snow,  rose,  rent  and  jagged,  to  one  brooding 
cumulus  that  hung  above  it  and  curled  on  the  blue 
like  a  silver  dragon.  Presently  the  cloud  furled  its 
pinions  and  settled  upon  the  peak.  All  the  sky  was 
radiant  azure  save  for  the  great  cloud;  but  beneath 
it  one  passage  of  shadow  spread  across  the  sunlit 
snow  and  rippled  as  it  rose  and  fell  to  the  contours 
of  the  land.  There  life  fought  for  a  place  on  the 
mountain,  and  a  thin  pine  wood  fretted  the  snow, 
where  still  it  haunted  ravines  and  northern  faces  of 
cliffs ;  while  below,  on  the  many  shoulders  of  the  great 
peak,  whole  forests  basked  green  against  the  spurs 
and  crags  that  broke  from  their  verdancy  to  buttress 
the  earth  above.  Here  fell  precipices  until  the  lower 
hills  caught  them,  and  little  plateaux  hung  and  green 
slopes  nestled  on  the  ledges  of  stone.  Then,  by  a 
thousand  gentle  declivities,  there  spread  and  oozed 
through  every  valley  and  beneath  every  height  the 
work  of  man,  terrace  upon  terrace,  step  upon  step. 
Now  the  trellises  of  his  vines  made  a  green  splendour 
of  every  knap  and  knoll,  and  his  olives  wound  their 
orchards,  like  a  grey  and  tattered  veil,  round  eacli 
turn  and  twist  of  the  hills;  while  breaking  from  the 
rolling  green,  like  nests  of  birds  or  wedges  of  brown 
honeycomb,  his  hamlets  and  villages  clung  and  con- 


284  THE  JOY  OF  YOUTH 

gregated  about  their  little  white  or  rosy  eampanili. 
Here  the  chestnuts  lifted  their  brightness  to  the  gir- 
dle of  the  pines ;  here  again  swung  out  some  great 
marble  crag  to  distribute  the  awful  burden  of  the 
mountain. 

Sunk  in  the  midst  of  an  immense  cup,  whose  broken 
lip  was  a  ring  of  mountains,  whose  sides  were  chased 
and  fretted  with  forests  and  steep  places,  jewelled  with 
hamlets,  glorified  with  all  the  verdure  of  June,  there 
spread  blue  water;  and  round  the  lake's  margin,  like 
a  handful  of  bright  shells,  the  houses  clustered. 
The  hymn  of  light  was  being  sung  over  Italy, 
Great  cloud  masses  lumbered  up  presently  and  dis- 
charged their  burden  of  brightness  directly  upon 
Como.  Light  rather  than  rain  they  bore,  and  their 
splendour  was  reflected  in  the  water  beneath  them, 
to  kill  the  blue  and  make  the  liquid  mirror  shine. 
This  film  of  brightness  spread  upon  the  sky-reflecting 
waters,  and  currents  of  wind  also  touched  them,  until 
the  deep  fluttered  into  transitory  darkness  at  their 
pressure.  The  last  enchanter  to  move  on  land  and 
lake  indifferently  was  shadow;  and  more  wonderful 
than  the  reflections  of  the  light,  there  wound  and 
stretched  wine-purple  stains  over  the  water,  where 
the  forms  of  the  high  clouds  were  flung  down  upon 
the  face  of  it.  They  seemed  ponderable,  and  sank 
from  the  surface  to  colour  the  very  depths;  while 
amid  their  patterns  and  stains  of  lapis-lazuli  the  sun 
shone  upon  the  lake  and  woke  rich  blues  and  greens, 
that  embroidered  the  shadow  shapes  with  the  network 
of  winding  enamels  and  followed  their  changing  out- 
lines as  they  spread  and  passed  again.  Very  magical 
was  the  sleight  that  shadow  played  with  the  shore 


IN  THE  HILLS  285 

also.  It  flew  over  forests  and  mountains,  like  a  flock 
of  violet  birds;  it  hid  whole  villages  beneath  its 
gloom,  and  then  lifted  and  revealed  the  vanished 
places  again  aglow  in  the  sunlight. 

But  all  this  detail  and  harmonious  splendour  was 
as  nothing  to  the  incarnate  spirit  of  light  that  gave 
birth  to  it.  Light  quickened  noon,  and  throbbed 
through  the  veins  of  the  earth.  From  cloud  to  moun- 
tain, from  mountain  to  the  least  flower  that  homed 
thereon,  the  spirit  forgot  nothing,  but  swept  land 
and  sky  with  a  presence  like  a  bloom  —  a  blessed 
aura  that  crowned  all  things  in  earth  and  heaven ;  an 
ineffable  glory  of  melting,  magic  blue  that  soaked 
all  matter  like  a  tincture,  and  spread  Demeter's  own 
veil,  woven  of  violet  and  gentian,  between  Persephone 
and  every  eye  that  might  gaze  and  grow  dim  at  sight 
of  her. 

"  It's  the  something  between,"  said  Bertram  to 
Loveday  — ' '  the  something  that  only  Turner  ever 
got.  It  beats  every  man  who  touches  Italy.  It's 
such  a  comfort  sometimes  to  look  at  things  you 
needn  't  try  to  paint  —  impossible  miracles  like  this. 
Then  you  can  just  be  happj^;  but  if  there's  a  picture, 
then  one  begins  to  trouble." 

Loveday  ate  cherries  and  fanned  herself.  They  sat 
together  and  rested  above  Breglia,  on  the  shoulder  of 
Cima-Grona.  They  gazed  down  upon  Como,  with 
Bellagio  in  the  midst,  with  snowy  Grigna  towering 
above  Varenna  on  their  left  hand  and  green  Crocione 
on  their  right. 

Loveday  reclined  in  a  nest  of  wild  flowers,  and  the 
blue  and  yellow,  purple  and  rose,  made  a  fair  setting 
for  her  in  her  white  linen  dress. 


286  THE  JOY  OF  YOUTH 

"  Ten  minutes,"  he  said,  "  and  we're  off  again. 
And  you  are  quite  wrong  to  eat  those  cherries. 
You'll  want  them  more  at  the  top  than  you  do  now." 

"  Listen  to  the  bells,"  she  answered,  "  and  don't 
speak.  They're  so  different  to  our  formal  bells,  that 
always  seem  to  be  repeating  the  responses.  These 
talk  to  each  other  naturally  —  question  and  answer 
—  and  seem  to  think  between." 

Then  she  spoke  of  the  climb. 

"  I  saw  heath  and  eye-bright  coming  up  the  hill. 
They  put  me  in  mind  of  dear  old  Haldon. " 

"  Did  they  ?  And  what  on  earth  do  you  want  to 
be  put  in  mind  of  dear  old  Haldon  for?  "  he  asked. 
Then  he  answered  himself. 

"  But  I  know.  When  I'm  in  England  I  always 
welcome  a  twinkle  of  colour,  or  a  note  of  music,  or 
the  flash  of  a  brown  eye  that  puts  me  in  mind  of 
Italy.     So  will  you  when  you  go  back." 

''  I  know  I  shall.  This  is  my  home.  I  feel  it 
more  and  more  every  day  and  every  hour.  I  cried 
when  I  saw  Como  first." 

"  You're  not  the  first  girl  who  has  done  that. 
You  never  found  nature  so  flagrantly  sentimental  be- 
fore, and  I  doubt  if  you  will  again." 

'*  It  doesn't  seem  real,"  she  said.  "  I  was  writing 
to  Ralegh  last  night,  and  trying  to  describe  it,  and 
telling  him  that  the  lake  and  the  green  hills  and  grey 
mountains,  and  the  villages  and  churches  and  cy- 
presses and  sunshine  all  seemed  arranged  and 
planned  too  perfectly  —  like  a  theatre.  It 's  so 
thought  out  —  to  the  very  oleanders  and  roses  and 
weeping  willows  tumbling  into  the  w^ater.  And  the 
great  grown  men  fishing  and  catching  tiny  finger- 


IN  THE  HILLS  287 

lings,  that  ought  to  be  put  back  to  grow  up ;  and  the 
women  with  their  little  wooden  pattens,  that  whisper 
together  as  they  walk;  and  the  mulberries  and  corn 
and  maize  and  vine  and  olive  —  it's  all  like  happy- 
light  opera  somehow.  One  feels  the  curtain  will  come 
down,  and  we  shall  go  out  into  the  dark." 

"  Yes,  it's  unreal  till  you  know  it  far  better  than 
we  do.  Even  in  storm,  with  thunder  rolling  over  the 
mountains  and  the  lake  running  in  waves  and  show- 
ing her  little  white  teeth,  there  is  nothing  impressive. 
It's  only  like  a  pretty  woman  in  a  temper." 

"  Yet  I've  never  seen  anything  so  obviously  and 
distractingly  lovely  in  my  life,"  admitted  Loveday. 
"  Never  was  a  flower  so  blue  as  the  mountains.  Will 
it  wear,  or  shall  I  get  tired  of  it?  " 

"You'll  get  tired  of  it,"  he  prophesied.  "  The 
lake  is  too  assertive  and  rhetorical.  There  were  tears 
in  my  eyes,  too,  the  first  time  I  saw  it;  the  second 
time  I  kept  my  nerve;  the  third  time  —  this  time  — 
I  yawned.  The  bitter  truth  about  Como  is  that  she 
can't  keep  up  the  force  of  her  first  impact.  You 
might  compare  her  to  fine,  light  music,  as  you  say  — 
wholly  delightful  and  all  that  many  men  have  the 
power  to  appreciate.  But  there  is  scenery,  as  there 
is  art,  in  the  austere  air  of  which  only  those  can  live 
who  come  with  long  apprenticeship  and  prayer  and 
fasting.  You  don't  get  a  really  swagger  taste  in  art 
without  working  for  it;  and  more  you  do  in  nature. 
But  people  work  at  art;  they  don't  work  at  na- 
ture. The  critics  sneer  at  artists  who  work  at  nature. 
There  are  leading  novelists  who  think  a  country  walk 
is  only  an  excuse  for  talking,  and  keeping  their  own 
bodies  in  health.     They  understand  men  and  women ; 


288  THE  JOY  OF  YOUTH 

but  that's  all.  No  doubt  Como  wins  a  sentimental 
throb  from  every  soul  who  sees  it  for  the  first  time; 
but  the  people  who  come  back  to  it  again  and  again 
and  are  satisfied  with  it  are  not  connoisseurs  of 
nature." 

"  Perhaps  the  Swiss  lakes  are  sterner?  This  is  a 
lovely  toy,  anyway,  if  it  is  nothing  more,  and  I  don't 
feel  I  shall  ever  see  anything  so  dear  and  gentle  and 
sweet  again.  I  passed  a  little  funeral  yesterday,  and 
even  death  seemed  a  part  of  the  picture.  One  would 
have  thought  a  funeral  a  false  note  and  merely  bad 
taste  here;  but  it  fitted  in.  Death  was  no  king  of 
terrors.  I  seemed  to  see  him  as  a  gracious  figure 
showing  some  worn-out  human  child  a  shady  corner 
where  she  might  lie  down  and  sleep." 

He  smiled. 

* '  Yes  —  we  laugh  at  superstition,  forgive  every- 
body everything,  sympathise  with  the  smugglers  who 
try  to  get  tobacco  and  salt  across  the  mountain,  and 
copy  the  people,  even  to  these  hemp  slippers  we're 
wearing. ' ' 

* '  I  want  to  go  on  making  believe  —  I  never  want 
to  wake  up,"  declared  Loveday;  but  she  sighed  as 
she  spoke,  for  she  knew  that  she  had  wakened  up. 

This  man  was  her  life,  but  must  forever  remain 
outside  it.  The  great  discovery  had  not  burst  upon 
her,  or  she  might  have  fled  before  it  and  escaped  the 
full  heart  of  the  storm ;  but  it  had  crept  upon  her, 
so  gradually  and  surely  that  the  process  was  un- 
observed and  its  incidence  unmarked.  Looking  back, 
she  could  not  tell  when  the  truth  had  taken  shape 
and  stared  into  her  heart  with  unsleeping  eyes.  It 
had  been  born  so  slowly  that  the  very  form  and  sub- 


IN  THE  HILLS  289 

stance  of  it  were  not  appreciated  in  the  making. 
Sometimes  she  felt  as  though  it  was  only  when  he 
went  away  to  Siena  that  she  had  really  begun  to  like 
him ;  and  sometimes  she  looked  back,  along  the  line 
of  golden  hours  that  she  had  passed  beside  him,  and 
guessed  that  she  had  been  loving  him  ever  since  she 
came  into  Italy.  But  this  was  not  so.  A  psycholo- 
gist possessing  power  to  trace  the  friendship  would 
have  set  his  finger  on  this  mountain  meadow  where 
Loveday  now  sat;  he  would  have  listened  to  her  sigh 
and  looked  into  her  eyes  that  were  looking  at  the 
man.  It  did  not  signify  that  she  ate  cherries  and  he 
gulped  Chianti  from  a  flagon:  that  was  the  moment 
when,  out  of  mist  and  uncertainty,  delicate  question- 
ings and  stout  self-assurances  that  no  such  thing 
could  happen  to  a  betrothed  woman  who  loved  him. 
And  had  a  cherry-tree  in  fulness  of  time  sprung  from 
a  stone  that  she  cast  away,  it  might  have  stood  to  mark 
the  very  temple  of  the  new-born  passion,  and  in  years 
to  come  lift  its  sheaf  of  snow  and  sparkle  of  blood-red 
fruit  above  the  spot  where  young  Loveday 's  heart  was 
lost. 

She  gave  a  little  gasp,  stared  at  Bertram  as  though 
he  were  a  stranger,  then  turned  from  him  and  buried 
her  brown  face  in  the  grass  and  wept. 

He  divined  that  she  was  crying,  but  dreamed  not 
of  the  reason.  He  smiled  to  himself.  "  Just  like  a 
girl,"  he  thought,  **  to  choose  absolutely  the  wrong 
place  in  the  conversation  for  tears!  "  Then  he  got 
up  and  took  the  knapsack,  and  left  her. 

"  I've  drunk  the  Chianti,"  he  said,  "  and  I'm 
going  to  rinse  the  flask  and  fill  it  with  water  at  the 
fountain  down  here.     I'll  be  back  in  a  minute.     Then 


290  THE  JOY  OF  YOUTH 

we'll  push  on.  We  must  get  to  that  streak  of  snow, 
or  perish  in  the  attempt." 

She  made  no  answer,  and  he  left  her  for  half  an  hour. 
But  she  had  started  to  climb  when  he  returned,  and 
he  overtook  her  five  hundred  feet  higher  up.  Then 
he  strove  to  brighten  her  thoughts. 

*'  When  you  look  at  the  kingdoms  outspread  like 
this,  you  feel  vexed  with  those  art  critics  who  will 
have  it  that  art  can  teach  nature  such  a  lot,"  he  said. 
' '  I  know  you  '11  tell  me  I  'm  contradicting  myself ;  but 
that  don't  matter.  The  ideal  must  be  rooted  in  the 
real ;  we  must  be  kind  to  this  many-coloured,  wonder- 
ful dust,  for  the  dust  is  the  great-great-great-grand- 
father of  us  all.  The  chalice  that  holds  the  wine  of  all 
life  is  dust.  Every  seed  of  man  and  beast  and  flower 
has  got  to  be  planted  in  it.  Without  earth,  all  seed 
might  as  Avell  be  stone.  We  are  the  children  of  earth 
and  water  and  the  grandchildren  of  fire  —  the  same 
stuff  that  goes  to  make  these  mountains  and  this  lake. 
And  so  are  the  lilies,  and  the  gazelle,  and  the  leopard, 
and  everything  in  the  world  that  is  lovely.  And  Na- 
ture's always  at  her  potter's  wheel,  moulding  and  re- 
moulding, sweeping  away,  trying  again,  working  out 
blind  alleys,  then  coming  back  to  the  main  road. 
Why  evolution  maddens  Nietzsche  and  his  disciples, 
I  cannot  guess.  It  ought  to  have  been  the  sword 
in  his  hand;  and  if  he  discovered  it,  he  would 
have  seen  it  was  worth  his  own  fetich  of  eternal  re- 
currence a  thousand  times  over.  You  can  trace  it 
through  and  through  art,  and  the  Ruler  Art  is  just 
as  logically  an  outcome  of  sound  steps  taken  in  the 
dawn  of  things  as  the  Slave  Art  is  the  outcome  of  false 
steps.     Nietzsche  sneers  at  Darwin  and  Spencer,  and 


IN  THE  HILLS  291 

never  had  the  courage  to  confess  to  himself  that  his 
Superman  could  not  have  come  to  him,  until  he  found 
himself  on  the  road  those  pioneers  had  blazed." 

He  broke  of£,  was  silent  a  moment,  and  then  rattled 
on  again: 

"  Most  of  the  swell  writers  in  England  are  com- 
mitting the  sin  against  the  Holy  Ghost,  and  only  using 
art  for  propaganda  nowadays.  The  mightiest  men 
never  did  that,  and  never  will.  It's  an  awfully  se- 
rious sign,  in  my  opinion.  Of  course,  every  great 
masterpiece  preaches,  but  no  artist  ought  to  be  a 
preacher.  In  England  they  preach  eternal  sermons 
on  the  stage  and  in  their  novels,  and  call  it  realism! 
They  are  after  the  truth  —  a  fearful  thing  —  a  starv- 
ing, petrifying  thing  —  a  mare's  nest  —  the  death  of 
art." 

"  Nietzsche  declares  art  is  with  us  that  we  should 
not  perish  through  truth,"  said  Loveday. 

She  had  not  spoken  since  he  returned  to  her  —  in- 
deed, he  had  not  given  her  a  chance  to  do  so.  Her 
voice  fluttered  a  little. 

**  Of  course  he  does.  Because  he  knows  that  truth 
is  in  another  category.  Truth  doesn't  belong  to 
masterpieces.  Is  mighty  music  true?  Is  Greek 
tragedy  true?  Is  Swinburne  true?  Are  this  lake 
and  these  mountains  true?  You  didn't  say  '  How 
true  '  to  Michelangelo's  '  Dawn.'  The  real  masters, 
whatever  their  medium,  knew  that  beauty  was 
greater  than  truth ;  but  this  generation  says,  '  Beauty 
is  truth,  truth  beauty'  ;  it  talks  about  the  'beauty 
of  ugliness  ';  I  wonder  it  doesn't  talk  about  the 
*  ugliness  of  beauty.'  Of  course,  in  a  spiritual  sense, 
truth  may  be  beautiful;  and  so  may  a  lie;  but  art  is 


292         THE  JOY  OF  YOUTH 

above  truth,  just  as  ethics  is  above  good  or  evil,  and 
Nature  above  kindness  or  cruelty." 

"  I  thought  nothing  could  be  greater  than  truth," 
she  said. 

"  Even  if  it  were  so,  truth  is  clean  out  of  reach  for 
very  good  reasons,"  he  answered,  "  and  the  thing 
that  our  swagger  artists  give  us  to-day  is  no  more  the 
whole  truth  of  life  than  our  side  is  the  whole  truth  of 
the  moon.  By  artists,  I  mean  the  writers  —  the 
novel-writers  and  dramatists,  because  my  craft  has 
stopped  thinking  altogether,  and  the  best  of  us  are 
only  house  decorators.  They  never  try  to  say  any- 
thing at  all  —  no  doubt  because  they've  got  nothing 
to  say.  But  the  writers  —  the  '  realists  '  — ■  the  men 
who  paint  the  woe  of  the  world  and  sit  like  Jonahs  on 
their  middens  and  cry  naked  misery,  and  laugh  or 
sneer  at  the  rationalists  and  moral  leaguers  and  eugen- 
ists  and  men  of  science  and  all  the  brave  people  who 
are  trying  to  do  something  —  these  image-breakers, 
who  shudder  at  idealism  in  every  shape  or  form,  and 
give  us  their  dust  and  ashes  and  say,  *  This  is  the 
truth,  and  there 's  nothing  greater  '  —  I  tell  you  that 
they  are  voices  in  the  wind.  There  are  a  hundred 
things  greater  than  the  deepest  truth  we  shall  ever 
hear  from  them." 

*'  Faith  and  hope  are  greater,  perhaps,"  she  said. 

**  Yes,  and  love,  and  the  antique  spirit.  Poetry  is 
the  greatest  thing  in  the  whole  world  —  not  in  the 
limited  sense  of  writing  or  painting  or  music,  but  in 
the  grand,  universal  sense  of  living.  Every  life  is 
a'poem,  and  the  least  life  is  greater  in  its  majesty  and 
dominion  than  the  mightiest  epic,  or  fresco,  or  sym« 
phony.     To    create   your    own   life    and    make   it    a 


IN  THE  HILLS  293 

beautiful  work!  What  medium  compares  with  your 
own  days  and  months  and  years !  ' ' 

*'  We  can  all  be  artists  at  that  rate  —  conscious  or 
unconscious,"  she  answered;  *'  but  think  what  the 
days  and  months  and  years  of  most  people  amount 
to.  Think  what  sort  of  material  they  are  to  make  a 
beautiful  poem.  And  these  writers  you  talk  about 
so  impatiently  —  they  feel  that.  They  are  idealists, 
whether  they  hate  the  word  or  not,  because  they  want 
everybody's  life  to  have  the  possibilities  of  beauty; 
and  they  try  to  show  the  world  that  the  material  for 
beauty-making  isn't  fairly  divided." 

But  he  would  not  grant  even  this. 

"  They  have  no  imagination  to  see  that  different 
orders  of  men,  derived  from  different  ancestry,  need 
different  happiness,  and  not  the  same  happiness. 
They  talk  about  equality;  but  the  poor  don't  want 
equality;  they  only  want  their  own  ideals,  not  ours; 
and  we  must  be  firm  there,  or  we  head  straight  for 
anarchy.  You  think  it's  easy  for  a  rich  girl,  like 
you,  and  a  rich  man,  like  me,  to  make  poetry  of  our 
lives,  as  we  are  doing;  but  it's  harder  for  us  than 
for  them  really,  because  we  are  better  endowed  and 
admit  far  higher  standards.  Art  and  life  demand 
more  from  us  — >  more  self-denial,  more  patience,  more 
bravery  to  face  difficult  and  dangerous  things.  Only 
the  poor  are  free." 

"  The  Socialists  would  call  that  cant,"  she  said. 
"  They  declare  that  there's  nothing  in  blood,  and 
that  money  and  education  make  all  the  difference." 

"  But  they  know  better  in  their  hearts.  They 
know  that  the  great  spirits,  sent  into  the  world  to 
carry  on  great  traditions,  bend  under  burdens  the 


294  THE  JOY  OF  YOUTH 

poor  eoiild  not  bear.  '  It  is  the  top  of  the  mountain 
that  the  lightning  strikes.'  Of  course,  blood  is 
nonsense,  and  the  big  men  spring  more  often  from 
the  soil  than  from  the  ancient  lines.  Aristocracy 
belongs  to  the  soul  of  man,  not  his  carcase.  But  the 
poor  in  spirit  —  Christ  blessed  them ;  and  I  think,  if 
any  deserve  blessing,  it  is  the  rich  in  spirit  —  the 
gifted  ones  —  the  creators  —  they  who,  out  of  their 
wealth,  pour  ceaselessly  for  those  who  lack  it;  who 
wear  themselves  out  for  the  joy  of  the  world ;  who  give 
and  give  and  give  and  weary  never,  like  the  fountain, 
or  the  music  of  the  trees.  They  are  above  earthly  pay- 
ments: you  cannot  recompense  them:  you  can  only 
bless  them.  And  the  artists  come  first  and  highest  in 
that  band — 'the  brave  artists,  with  faces  that  smile 
and  hidden  hearts  that  throb  under  the  awful  demands 
of  their  Mistress.  Are  these  men  to  dwell  in  the  huts 
of  Socialism  with  the  herd?  Are  they  to  be  de- 
nied everything  the  world  can  give  them  and  made 
to  share  the  ideal  of  slaves?  " 

He  flung  himself  down  where  a  stunted  whitethorn 
made  a  little  shadow  on  the  sun-scorched  hill. 

"I'm  empty;  I  must  eat,"  he  said;  "  and  so  must 
you." 

But  she  was  interested  now,  and  not  hungry. 
While  he  spread  the  luncheon  she  asked  another 
question : 

"  Mustn't  art  have  anything  to  do  with  ugli- 
ness? "  she  asked. 

"  Art  may  interpret  ugliness.  Given  the  artist 
great  enough  to  handle  them,  all  things  are  within 
her  province.  Then  ugliness  ceases  to  be  the  word. 
Take    Gauguin's    Tahiti    women  —  solemn,    archaic 


IN  THE  HILLS  295 

lumps  of  red  earth.  I  understand  what  he  meant  by 
them  and  honour  his  purpose.  You  can  be  greater 
than  ugliness,  just  as  you  can  be  greater  than  beauty. 
You  can  rise  above  ugliness  or  beauty.  But  to  me  a 
thing  of  beauty  is  a  joy  forever,  and  to  be  a  thing  of 
ugliness  is  not.  That's  a  terribly  severe  test  —  the 
eternal  joy.  A  work  of  art  that  can  ride  over  the 
storms  of  centuries  and  still  give  joy  to  the  finest 
taste  is  never  ugly.  But  it  is  the  rarest  thing  in  the 
world.  Evolution  fights  against  such  a  work.  Bee- 
thoven is  called  milk  for  babes  by  modern  connois- 
seurs of  the  highest  that  music  is  supposed  to  have 
reached;  and  there  are  apparently  sane  men  writing 
who  would  burn  everything  in  the  National  Gallery 
and  start  again  —  with  the  post-impressionists.  I 
suppose  they  would  also  grind  all  marble  to  dust  until 
Rodin  carved  it." 

"  A  work  of  art  must  be  pretty  wonderful  to  keep 
its  head  up,  even  for  a  century  or  two?  "  she  asked 
him. 

Bertram  agreed  with  her. 

"  But  remember  that  it  is  not  truth  that  saves  it," 
he  said.  "  This  twaddle  about  remorseless  truth  is 
pettifogging  —  a  mere  wild-goose  chase.  Another 
thing:  there's  a  deadly  distrust  of  Science  among 
artists,  as  a  rule  —  an  instinctive  hatred  of  it.  I  hate 
to  hear  artists  snapping  and  snarling  at  Science 
—  as  the  Church  used  to  do  —  and  just  as  fruitlessly. 
The  last  word  on  this  earth  will  always  be  spoken  by 
Science,  and  if  Art  or  Science  had  to  pack  up  and 
leave  the  planet,  it  wouldn't  be  Science.  She  doesn't 
understand  us ;  but  she 's  always  respectful  and  polite 
to  us." 


296  THE  JOY  OF  YOUTH 

He  ate  and  drank,  and  made  Loveday  eat  and 
drink, 

"  Truth-seekers  in  art  are  a  bore  to  you,  then?  " 
she  asked. 

"  A  very  great  bore,"  he  admitted.  "  They  are 
like  beginners  picking  over  a  rubbish-heap :  they 
don't  know  what  to  take  and  what  to  leave.  So  they 
bag  the  lot,  and  give  you  everything,  down  to  the 
dust  of  the  cinders,  and  the  broken  bottles,  and  the 
odours,  and  call  the  result  *  truth.'  They  are  wel- 
come to  such  truth;  but  they  are  not  welcome  to  the 
lie  of  calling  such  truth  beauty." 

"  They  are  honest,  all  the  same,  and  in  deadly 
earnest,"  she  said.  "  The  grim  earnest  of  their 
works  is  the  greatest  thing  in  them." 

"  They  are  children  of  this  generation  —  unlike  us, 
who  belong  to  the  past.  They  are  little  worms  gnaw- 
ing the  core  of  the  time;  and  I'm  sorry  for  them. 
Ruskin  said  that  the  mass  of  society  was  made  up  of 
morbid  thinkers  and  miserable  workers.  And  that 
was  fifty  years  ago.  What  would  he  say  to-day? 
Of  course,  the  rich  we  have  always  with  us  —  the 
brainless,  heartless,  worthless  rich,  who  don't  think 
— I  morbidly  or  otherwise,  and  the  cheerful  loafers,  as 
well  as  the  miserable  workers,  and  the  envious  and 
the  jealous  and  the  sulky  workers.  But  our  artists 
are  just  as  morbid  and  sentimental  and  self-conscious 
as  the  people  they  write  about.  They  are  in  it  and 
of  it.  Where  the  old  order  is  dying  and  rotting; 
where  faith  is  the  melting-pot;  where  the  horizon  is 
dark  with  strife  and  bitterness  and  class  prejudice 
and  sex  war,  there  must  be  morbidity.  We  are  fast 
getting  to  the  time  when  this  morbidity  is  going  to 


IN  THE  HILLS  297 

make  England  jolly  ill  —  perhaps  an  invalid  for  the 
rest  of  her  natural  life.  And  she's  getting  the 
wrong  doctoring.  They're  giving  her  liniment,  and 
she  wants  pills.  But  it  may  be  old  age,  and,  of  course, 
you  can't  do  much  for  that." 

"'  How  glorious  if  Art,  with  a  big  A,  could  make 
her  young  again !  ' '  cried  Loveday. 

*'  Art  will  never  have  a  serious  voice  in  the  af- 
fairs of  the  world  as  it  is,"  he  answered;  *'  and  I,  for 
one,  hate  to  see  men,  who  have  proved  themselves 
great  artists,  standing  on  tubs  in  a  row  with  profes- 
sional politicians  and  publicists,  and  shouting  their 
nostrums  in  the  fair,  with  the  quacks,  and  joining  the 
chorus  of  public  men  who  yelp  the  passing  hour. 
They  ought  to  be  doing  their  own  work,  which  is 
better." 

"  The  Greek  artists  all  added  something  to  their 
lives,"  she  argued.  "  They  didn't  live  in  their 
studies  and  studios.  They  fought  for  their  country 
and  took  a  leading  place  in  affairs.  Michelangelo 
didn  't  mind  building  walls  to  keep  her  enemies  out 
of  Firenze.  Then  why  shouldn't  artists  do  some- 
thing to  make  England  stronger  and  wiser,  if  they 
can?  " 

"  It's  the  times,"  he  answered.  "  We  are  all 
specialists  now.  Life  was  a  simple,  ingenuous,  glori- 
ous thing  in  the  Golden  Age.  Now  it's  neither 
simple  nor  ingenuous  —  though  still  glorious.  yEschy- 
lus  fought  at  Salamis,  but  Tennyson  didn't  go  to 
the  Crimea.  Thucydides  was  admiral  of  a  fleet  in 
Thrace;  but  if  we  asked  Mr.  Bernard  Shaw  to  take 
over  a  cruiser  squadron  when  we  next  go  fighting  — 
well,  perhaps  he  might  —  for  the  sake  of  the  experi- 


298         THE  JOY  OF  YOUTH 

ence;  but  I  don't  think  he  would.  He'd  be  too  busy 
about  things  that  mattered  more.  Fifth-century 
Athens  was  different.  The  times  have  degenerated. 
Our  artists  talk  about  anything  and  everything;  but 
how  many  things  would  they  fight  for?  How  many 
would  they  even  pay  other  people  to  fight  for? 
Men  don't  go  face  to  face  with  men,  to  drag  art  out 
of  them  nowadays  —  not  even  as  Dickens  did.  They 
concoct  their  human  beings  in  the  study.  They  are 
all  pessimists  and  fly  from  optimism.  The  '  intellec- 
tuals '  would  probably  agree  without  division  that 
an  optimist  must  be,  by  the  fact  itself,  weak-minded. 
The  times  have  changed,  and  only  the  very  greatest 
men,  or  the  very  greatest  fools,  can  placidly  endure 
their  own  times.  But  our  '  intellectuals  '  are  neither, 
so  they  can't  endure  them.  They  either  freeze  into 
mere  ice,  and  reflect  existence  through  their  own  chill 
temperaments;  or  become  sentimental  about  life,  and 
sob  over  the  sprained  ankle  of  a  daddy-long-legs;  or 
dive  and  burrow  and  wriggle  away  from  reality  into 
the  moonlit  loveliness  of  Irish  dreaming." 

"I'm  sure  our  own  time  is  the  best  for  us,"  said 
Loveday.     "  But  net  because  w^e  are  fools." 

"  No ;  because  it 's  the  same  time, ' '  he  answered  in- 
stantly. "  Any  time  would  have  been  the  best  for 
me  that  found  you  in  the  world. ' ' 

But  the  gravity  of  the  statement  and  its  chivalry 
were  disarmed  by  his  apparent  flippant  indifference. 
They  ate  and  made  merry;  and  presently  ancient 
rocks,  that  seldom  echoed  to  any  sound  save  thunder, 
sent  back  their  laughter  to  them  from  a  steep  place. 


CHAPTER  XXXIV 

PROMETHEUS 

A  GREAT  scarp  broke  out  of  the  green  mountain, 
lifted  its  crest  raggedly,  then  fell  forward  by  savage 
steps,  each  isteeper  than  the  last,  until  starkly  it 
dropped  to  within  a  hundred  feet  of  the  torrent  bed 
beneath.  Here  it  seemed  that  the  unsleeping  water 
had  bored  the  cliff  and  fretted  away  its  marble  bases, 
for  the  rocks  overhung  fearfully,  with  the  threat  of 
peril  that  belongs  by  implication  to  such  places.  The 
cliffs  were  scored  with  darker  passages  upon  the  grey, 
and  each  step  and  cleft  of  them  supported  a  young 
chestnut  tree,  rowan,  or  horn-beam.  Beyond  the 
crag  towered  Crocione,  with  precipices  dragged  round 
it  like  a  garment,  and  its  crown  in  clouds;  while  far 
below  stood  the  brown  hamlet  of  Granola  about  a 
red  church  tower. 

The  river,  shrunk  to  a  crystal  thread  laced  with 
foam,  twined  through  the  bottom  of  the  gorge,  where 
all  was  a  litter  of  mighty  rocks  and  green  things 
fringing  them.  The  waters  shouted  to  the  hills,  and 
they  lifted  their  echoes  higher  and  higher,  fainter  and 
fainter,  until  the  last  whisper  died  beneath  the 
summits  of  the  mountains.  In  the  valley,  among  the 
grey  and  green  acclivities,  there  stared  out  torn,  worn 
patches,  like  rusty  wounds  upon  the  hills.  They 
marked  where   charcoal   burners  laboured,   stripped 


300         THE  JOY  OF  YOUTH 

the  pelt  of  the  brush,  and  calcined  their  wood.  A 
feather  of  smoke  swung  out  beneath  the  naked  spaces, 
and  above  them,  perched  on  the  wrinkled  necks  of 
the  heights,  a  few  lonely  homes  clung  together.  The 
tassels  of  the  chestnut  were  breaking  into  flower,  mile 
upon  mile;  the  robinia  also  hung  out  sweet,  white 
tresses;  and  every  dene  and  dingle  and  scrap  of 
standing  hay  was  a  feast  of  flowers. 

In  a  great  litter  of  boulders  —  marble  and  granite 
—  Bertram  Dangerfield  set  up  his  easel,  while  Love- 
day  roamed  and  gathered  beech  fern  and  wine-col- 
oured columbines.  She  grew  tired  presently,  and  re- 
turned to  see  him  making  a  large,  water-colour 
painting  of  the  cliff-face.  Silently,  she  watched  him 
work. 

*'  I've  crucified  the  Light-Bringer  here  in  my 
mind.  This  precipice  suggested  the  picture.  It  is 
one  of  those  frowning  things  that  sting  the  nerves. 
Here,  upon  this  beautiful  limestone,  I  shall  chain 
Prometheus.  You  feel  that  the  direct  sunshine  al- 
most makes  the  cliff  red  hot.  He  sprawls  under  the 
glare  with  his  chains  fastened  to  great  bolts  wedged 
into  the  rock.  The  thing  is  to  suggest  his  uncon- 
querable life  pitted  against  these  unconquerable 
forces.  Beneath  him  this  cavity  yawns,  and  you  can 
feel  that  it  is  bottomless;  above  him  you  know  the 
crag  ceases,  so  that  he  is  hung  here  for  the  day  to 
roast  and  the  night  to  freeze.  Only  two  sparks  of 
life  share  the  scene  with  him.  In  that  glimpse  of 
hard,  blue  sky  on  the  left,  where  a  needle  of  the  rock 
juts  forward,  there  lurches  the  vulture;  and  beneath 
liis  feet,  as  though  it  would  throw  a  shadow  on  them 
and  cool  them  if  it  could,  I  have  put  a  great  iris  — 


PROMETHEUS  301 

the  loveliest  flower  that  ever  I  saw  —  a  wonderful, 
billowy  thing,  with  petals  that  looked  as  though  they 
were  made  from  mother-of-pearl.  It  comes  from  sun- 
scorched  mountains  in  Syria,  but  I  found  it  happy 
in  a  garden  at  Florence,  and  painted  it  with  joy  for 
this  work." 

"  It  will  be  a  glorious,  sad,  solemn  picture  if  you 
do  Prometheus  right,"  said  Loveday. 

"  His  head  is  the  hard  thing.  One  thinks  of  the 
Laocoon,  but  that's  not  my  idea.  There  will  be  no 
agony,  rather  the  pride  and  patience  of  a  demi-god 
—  in  the  grip  of  one  stronger  than  himself.  I  got 
a  soldier  of  the  King  of  Italy's  bodyguard  for  the  fig- 
ure—  a  splendid  man  —  and  I  arranged  a  sloping 
board  and  chains  and  everything.  He  hated  it.  It 
really  was  torment.  He  could  only  endure  five  or 
six  minutes  at  a  time.  But  I  made  it  worth  his  while, 
and  it  was  worth  mine.  I  saw  the  face  in  a  dream 
two  nights  ago.  It  will  be  a  good  thing  if  I  can 
do  it.  I've  soaked  myself  in  the  poets,  of  course. 
The  writing  men  can  do  such  a  lot  we  can't  —  I  get 
jealous  of  them  sometimes.  But  still  we  can  do  some 
things  they  can't." 

* '  I  should  think  you  could !  ' '  declared  Loveday. 

He  stopped  presently,  set  his  picture  in  the  sun  to 
dry,  and  smoked  a  cigarette.  Then  he  worked  on, 
while  Loveday  ate  her  lunch,  and  later,  when  the  light 
had  shifted  and  he  could  do  no  more,  they  tramped 
home  together  by  many  a  step  and  slope  from  the 
pines  to  the  chestnuts  and  from  the  chestnuts  to  the 
cherries  and  olives  and  dancing  vine.  Neither  was 
talkative  to-day,  but  both  were  occupied  with  many 
thoughts. 


302  THE  JOY  OF  YOUTH 

That  night  a  brilliance  of  summer  lightning  lit  the 
sky.  To  the  zenith  rolled  pallid  cumuli  still  of  a 
ghostly  white,  though  in  the  darkness  beyond  them 
stars  were  shining.  Below  these  pale  masses  spread 
tattered  black  vapours  to  the  crowns  of  the  moun- 
tains. Here  was  a  theatre  for  the  lightning,  and  it 
frolicked  and  flashed  gold  out  of  the  dark  clouds 
and  lit  the  white  ones  to  pure  rose.  As  night  thick- 
ened, the  splendour  of  the  sky  was  extreme.  But  no 
rain  fell,  and  the  silence  between  the  thunderclaps 
was  only  broken  by  prattle  of  voices  in  the  verandah 
of  the  hotel.  Under  the  trees  of  the  garden  fire-flies 
stole,  flashed  their  tiny  lights  against  the  lightning, 
and  reminded  Loveday  of  the  past.  Florence  already 
seemed  sunk  in  far-off  time. 


CHAPTER  XXXV 

LOVEDAY  TO  RALEGH 

''  Cadenaggio,  Sunday. 
*'  My  dear  Ralegh, 

"  I  am  dreadfully  startled  by  your  letter,  and, 
I  suppose,  ought  to  be  quite  crushed  by  a  criticism 
so  severe.  But  it  is  a  fact  that  out  here,  so  far  from 
you,  there  is  an  unreality  about  these  hard  sayings  — 
I  suppose  because  I  don 't  really  deserve  them,  or  you 
don't  really  mean  them.  We  are  engaged  to  be  mar- 
ried, and  you,  knowing  that  and  knowing  me,  can 
still  write  to  me  as  though  I  were  a  child  and  not 
a  woman  —  and  a  naughty  child  at  that. 

**  Ralegh,  I  am  never  going  to  be  dictated  to,  or 
lectured,  or  driven,  by  you  or  anybody.  I  have  found 
out  here  that  I  am  a  reasonable,  intelligent  creature, 
and,  what  is  far,  far  more  than  that,  I  have  found 
that  I  have  got  my  own  little,  precious  gift  from  Prov- 
idence. Italy  woke  it  up  and  England  couldn't.  It 
isn't  painting.  Bertram  Dangerfield  has  very  defi- 
nitely proved  to  me  that  I  have  not  the  least  faculty 
for  painting;  but  it  is — -don't  laugh  —  verse-making. 
Fancy  you  wanting  to  marry  a  girl  who  makes  verses 
—  a  girl  with  a  glimmer  of  poetry  in  her !  You  won 't 
believe  it;  but  wait  until  I  come  home  and  get  some- 
thing printed! 

"  It  happened  queerly,  and  I  can't  exactly  tell  you 


304  THE  JOY  OF  YOUTH 

how  after  your  letter.     But  I  will  when  I  come  home. 

"  Ralegh,  dear,  you  mustn't  think  that  I'm  a  fool. 
It  hurts  me  when  your  mother  thinks  so,  as  she  al- 
ways does;  but  if  you  are  going  to  make  the  same 
mistake,  I  don't  honestly  see  how  we  can  get  on.  I 
would  marry  no  man  who  thought  that;  and  if  you 
have  arrived  at  such  a  dismal  conclusion,  because  I 
like  Italy  better  than  England  and  always  shall  do 
so  to  my  dying  day,  then  you  must  be  clear,  and  we 
will  agree  that  this  unexpected  development  of  my 
character  cancels  our  bargain.  I  write  this  in  cold 
blood,  and  you  must  not  be  angry,  because  it  is  your 
letter  that  makes  me  do  so.  If  I  marry  you  (or,  if 
that  is  rather  too  strong,  when  I  marry  you),  I  shall 
very  fully  recognise  the  state  in  life  to  which  I  am 
called,  with  its  obligations  and  duties,  and  all  that 
you  desire  from  me,  and  all  you  have  the  right  as 
my  dear  husband  to  expect  from  me.  I  know  that 
my  home  is  your  home,  and  that  in  England  and  not 
Italy  it  will  be.  But  I  am  not  going  to  give  up  my 
birthright  and  turn  my  back  on  the  land  that  has  put 
a  soul  into  my  body.  I  am  not  prepared  to  make 
that  sacrifice.  A  woman  owes  something  to  her  soul, 
Ralegh,  dear,  and  the  debt  is  going  to  be  paid. 

"  I  am  not  coming  home  a  moment  before  I  choose, 
and  that  will  be  soon,  I  've  made  a  start  with  Italian, 
and  learned  enough,  at  any  rate,  to  know  that  I  shall 
never  speak  it  as  well  as  Bertram  Dangerfield.  But 
I've  got  to  speak  it  somehow.  It's  like  golf  rather. 
You  start  gaily,  and  begin  fondly  to  fancy  that  you 
are  getting  on.  But  there  very  quickly  comes  a  time 
when  you  feel  Avhat  lies  ahead.  Climbing  the  moun- 
tains is  the  same.     You  go  upward  hour  after  hour, 


LOVEDAY  TO  RALEGH       305 

and  think  you  are  makinj^  a  real  impression;  then 
comes  the  time  for  luncheon,  and  half  the  day  is 
gone,  and  you  are  still  in  the  green  hills  or  under  the 
grey  precipices.  The  snow  and  the  peaks  seem  to  be 
as  far  above  you  as  ever. 

"  Bertram  Dangerfield  and  I  crossed  to  Varenna 
yesterday,  and  climbed  into  the  hills  under  Grigna. 
It  was  just  beginning  to  get  interesting,  and  we  even 
talked  of  reaching  the  pass,  when  crash  came  the  thun- 
der and  flash  the  lightning  and  dash  the  rain.  It  can 
rain,  too !  By  good  chance  we  reached  a  cottage,  and 
the  folk  let  us  come  in  out  of  the  weather. 

"  Altogether  it  was  not  a  red-letter  day,  and  I'm 
glad  there  was  no  bad  news  for  you.  A  thing  hap- 
pened that  shows  how  death  is  always  hiding  behind 
life's  beautiful,  many-coloured  tapestry;  and  how 
often  he  sticks  his  bony  lingers  through  it,  just  as 
we  are  admiring  the  pattern.  A  file  of  four  mules 
were  passing  us  in  a  narrow,  paved  way,  and  the  last, 
without  a  shadow  of  warning,  suddenly  lashed  out  in 
my  direction,  and  I  felt  a  steel  shoe  glittering  within 
three  inches  of  my  face.  The  wretch  was  round  the 
corner  before  I  realised  what  had  happened,  but  Ber- 
tram felt  responsible  and  was  much  concerned.  Of 
course,  it  was  not  his  fault.  I  suppose  the  mule  has 
a  hateful  life,  poor  wretch,  and  has  been  made  sour 
and  cynical  by  starvation  and  many  blows,  so  when 
he  saw  a  happy  stranger  he  tried  to  make  her  un- 
happy. They  wear  great  plates,  with  points  to  grip 
the  cobblestones,  so  that  if  I  had  been  kicked  on  the 
head  the  chances  are  that  you  would  never  have  had 
to  lecture  your  Loveday  again. 

*'  Soon  after  we  came  across  such  a  pathetic  little 


306  THE  JOY  OF  YOUTH 

shrine.  "Where  a  fountain  broke  from  a  hill,  there 
stood  a  chestnut  tree,  and  to  the  trunk  of  it  was 
nailed  a  small,  coloured  picture  of  the  dead  Christ 
on  His  Mother's  lap.  Above  this  a  piece  of  tin  was 
set,  for  a  pent-house  to  protect  the  picture,  and  be- 
neath, a  little  ledge  was  fixed  —  for  gifts  from  passers- 

by. 

* '  I  laid  a  sprig  of  sage  and  a  wild  rose  there  — 
for  a  thank-offering  that  the  mule  had  not  kicked  my 
brains  out. 

"  Oh,  Ralegh,  I  have  got  brains,  and  I  am  capable, 
and  I  mean  to  be  a  useful  wife  to  you;  but  we  must 
be  ourselves.  It  comes  to  that.  If  you  don't  want 
me  to  be  myself,  but  only  your  second  self,  then  you 
must  speak  when  I  come  home. 

"  Why  do  the  elder  generation  ask  for  impossibili- 
ties? WTiy  does  your  mother,  who  has  a  will  of  iron, 
demand  of  me  that  I  shall  have  no  will  at  all?  Let 
her  ask  herself  how  she  would  have  felt,  when  she 
was  twenty-two,  if  her  future  mother-in-law  had  writ- 
ten to  her  the  letter  that  she  has  written  to  me.  She 
owes  me  a  whole-hearted  apologj^  —  and  she  knows  it. 
'  Selfish,'  *  ungrateful,'  '  irresponsible,'  '  wrong- 
headed,'  '  obsessed,'  '  un-English,'  *  undignified,'  and 
*  childish  ' —  all  that  in  one  letter !  I  am  none  of 
these  things  —  unless  it  be  *  un-English.'  And  you 
cannot  honestly  accuse  me  of  that. 

**  I  am  sorry  to  stick  up  for  myself  so  much  and 
write  in  such  a  fighting  spirit;  but  I  don't  see  how 
it  is  to  be  helped  after  your  letter. 

**  It  is  not  as  if  I  had  not  always  been  independent, 
both  before  and  since  we  were  betrothed.  You  have 
always  understood  that  I  must  be,  and  that  I  don't  re- 


LOVEDAY  TO  RALEGH       307 

spect  any  other  sort  of  woman.     Is  that  an  improper 
attitude?     You  know  perfectly  that  it  is  not. 

"  Please  write  to  me  again  and  say  you  didn't 
mean  half  of  what  you  said.  And  then  I'll  write 
and  tell  you  the  date  of  my  homecoming. 

* '  Your  LoVEDAY. 

*  *  P.  S. —  Bertram  Dangerfield  is  going  back  to 
Firenze  almost  immediately,  as  he  has  painted  what 
he  came  here  to  paint.  It  will  certainly  be  deadly 
dull  without  him.  Lord  Hillhurst  is  staying  at 
Manabbia,  and  called  here  yesterday  to  visit  friends. 
I  met  him  in  the  hall.  He  asked  me  to  send  his 
salaams. 

"  P.  S.  2. —  You  will  see  that  I  take  no  notice  what- 
ever of  what  you  said  about  my  friend,  because  you 
ought  not  to  have  said  it  unless  you  meant  it;  and 
if  you  meant  it,  you  are  not  a  Christian,  though  you 
may  think  you  are." 


CHAPTER  XXXVI 

REALITY 

The  time  had  come  when  Loveday  and  Bertram  were 
called  upon  to  part,  and  the  consciousness  of  it  chilled 
their  companionship  a  little.  He  disguised  his  feel- 
ings better  than  she  did;  but  she,  safe  in  the  secret 
conviction  that  he  did  not  care  for  her  as  she  now 
eared  for  him,  was  less  at  pains  to  pretend  indiffer- 
ence. She  often  acknowledged  her  obligations  to  him, 
and  he  as  often  declared  that  none  existed. 

"  We've  had  a  good  and  a  great  time,"  he  said, 
**  and  I've  learned  ten  thousand  more  things  from 
you  than  you  can  have  learned  from  me.  One  day 
in  your  courts  is  better  than  a  thousand,  young  Love- 
day;  and  think  of  the  number  that  I've  spent  in 
them!  " 

They  climbed  five  thousand  feet  to  the  Dosso  di 
Crriante,  past  the  Chapel  of  Maria,  Stella  Maris,  where 
still  the  skulls  of  those  that  perished  of  plague  lie 
flung  like  loaves  beneath  the  altar.  On  and  on  to  a 
green  plateau  they  toiled;  and  still  on,  until  they 
reached  the  crown  of  the  hill.  From  this  height 
Como  spread  like  a  fragment  of  green  shot  silk  thrown 
down  between  the  mountains,  and  Crocione's  forest- 
crowned  peak  was  close  at  hand.  They  made  their 
meal    where    lily-of-the-valley   flowered    about   them. 


REALITY  309 

"  *  Lily-of-the-mountain, '  they  should  be  called," 
said  Loveday,  She  found,  too,  many  other  precious 
flowers,  and  greeted  with  joy  the  white,  golden-eyed 
rock-rose,  for  that  was  a  friend  from  the  west  country. 

To  the  north  of  them  Piano's  little  waters  cuddled, 
like  a  dark  cat's  eye  under  the  hills,  and  a  great  light 
rained  over  the  northern  waters  of  Como,  even  to 
the  snow  ridges  where  Italy  ended.  But  Switzerland 
might  not  be  seen.  The  north  was  hidden  in  a  mesh 
of  grey  and  silver  clouds  that  darkened  down  upon 
the  mountains  and  only  shredded  away  into  the  blue 
of  the  zenith. 

"  The  first  time  I  came  here  was  three  years  ago," 
he  said,  "  and  I  sat  where  we  are  sitting  now  and  got 
on  to  the  track  of  the  greatest  theory  I  ever  started. ' ' 

**  If  it's  cheerful,  tell  it;  if  it's  mournful,  keep 
it  to  yourself,"  she  answered.  "  I  want  to  be  happy 
to-day  —  as  happy  as  I  can  be. ' ' 

"  What's  to  prevent  you  from  being  perfectly 
happy?  " 

"  Only  the  thought  that  we  shall  never  climb  a 
mountain  together  again." 

' '  I  don 't  know  —  I  don 't  see  why  not.  Mountains 
don't  run  away." 

* '  Never  like  this  —  never  like  two  wild  birds !  ' ' 

"  You'll  be  let  out  of  your  cage  for  a  fly  some- 
times, I  suppose?  " 

' '  Tell  me  your  theory. ' ' 

"  As  to  its  happiness,  it's  neither  happy  nor  sad  — 
merely  a  theory.  Looking  out  here  over  the  world 
— 1  it  was  a  more  glorious  day  than  this  —  I  asked  my- 
self why  nature  can  reach  perfection  just  when  and 
where  she  likes,  if  she's  dealing  with  the  unconscious 


310  THE  JOY  OF  YOUTH 

and  the  inanimate,  but  can't  get  within  a  mile  of  it 
when  conscious  intelligence  is  her  material." 

* '  Why  '  only  man  is  vile  '  ?  I  always  thought  that 
was  a  very  vile  idea,"  said  Loveday. 

"  He's  not  vile  —  far  from  vile  —  only  among 
these  cowls  and  crowns  of  cloud  and  marble,  under 
the  blazing  sun,  with  nothing  but  an  eagle  for  com- 
pany, I  wondered  and  wondered  why  everything  round 
me  had  its  full  perfect  completion  of  expression  and 
could  declare  itself  to  the  very  limits  of  its  endow- 
ment, while  I  was  an  unfinished,  fettered  thing,  des- 
tined never  to  be  free,  bound  by  the  dire  laws  of  con- 
scious intelligence  to  be  forever  incomplete." 

"  Conscious  intelligence  is  the  highest  miracle  of 
all.     Whatever  you  believe,  you  can't  doubt  that." 

"  I  do  doubt  it.  There's  a  dreadful  side  to  it. 
The  gain  is  only  won  at  a  terrible  cost,  because  per- 
fection and  conscious  intelligence  can  never  exist  to- 
gether.    We  must  renounce  perfection." 

"  Super-man  will  reach  it." 

"  Impossible;  it's  not  a  question  of  degree,  but 
of  kind.  Self -consciousness  can  only  be  run  on  an 
everlasting,  fundamental  lie,  and  though  I  admit  that 
truth  is  a  very  over-rated  commodity  in  many  affairs, 
in  the  great  central  affair,  in  the  struggle  for  social 
perfection,  you  cannot  very  well  expect  to  get  there 
by  the  way  of  untruth.  But  human  life  points  other- 
wise, and  must.  Lying,  and  not  loving,  makes  the 
world  go  round.  So  there  you  are;  the  whole  show 
of  humanity  is  based  on  falsehood.  For  self-conscious 
creatures  gregarious  existence  is  impossible  on  any 
other  foundation  whatever.  So  it  follows  that  per- 
fection is  beyond  the  reach  of  the  children  of  men." 


REALITY  311 

"  But  is  truth  such  an  impossible  thing?  And  is 
it  so  scarce?  "  asked  Loveday. 

*'  Yes;  where  two  or  three  people  are  gathered  to- 
gether, there  is  a  lie  in  the  midst  of  them.  They  smile 
while  their  hearts  frown;  they  laugh  while  their 
hearts  sulk ;  they  pretend  to  hope  what  they  fear,  and 
fear  what  they  hope.  Naked  truth  would  shatter  so- 
ciety far  quicker  than  dynamite.  It's  so  indecent 
that  only  unconscious  existence  can  endure  to  breathe 
the  air  of  it.  Sociology  is  based  on  falsehood.  So- 
ciety is  simply  held  together  by  a  cement  of  false- 
hood. It  is  the  grand  irony  —  the  ceaseless  joke  for 
Olympus  —  that  mankind,  while  they  run  about  day 
and  night  crying  for  truth,  fail  to  see  that  the  very 
bed-rock  of  all  amenity  and  inter-relations  between 
man  and  man  and  nation  and  nation  must  be  sup- 
pression of  truth.  The  truth-teller  would  be  a  pariah 
instantly.  In  practice  his  relations  would  have  him 
shut  up  as  one  of  weak  mind.  The  child  who  tells 
his  grandfather  the  truth  about  his  bald  head  is 
whipped.  We  stamp  truth  out  of  our  children  from 
the  cradle,  and  then  run  about  searching  for  it  our- 
selves. ' ' 

"  Exercise  of  tact  is  surely  not  going  to  come  be- 
tween us  and  perfection,"  she  said. 

"  Only  a  mind  steeped  and  nurtured  in  untruth 
would  make  that  remark,"  he  answered.  *'  We  call 
it  '  tact,'  because  we  are  all  in  the  same  boat,  and 
it  would  be  ugly  to  tell  each  other  we  are  all  liars. 
There's  not  a  day  passes  but  I  lie  to  you  and  you 
lie  to  me.  We  must.  We're  always  acting.  We 
can't  help  it,  and  I  don't  blame  us  in  the  least.  I'm 
only  sorry  for  us,  and  for  everybody,  that  it  is  so. 


312  THE  JOY  OF  YOUTH 

The  right  to  lie  can  be  denied  to  no  man,  and  I  go 
much  further  than  Schopenhauer,  for  instance,  who 
only  permits  lying  for  self-defence  and  no  other  rea- 
son. But  if  we  may  defend  ourselves  with  a  lie,  may 
we  not  defend  our  neighbors?  Consider  the  inquisi- 
tion of  one's  own  family  and  the  questions  they  allow 
themselves  to  ask  one  —  questions  that  are  sacred  and 
personal,  and  ought  not  to  be  asked.  It  isn't  enough 
to  refuse  to  reply;  that  throws  you  open  to  suspi- 
cion at  once,  and  sets  rumour  flying.  No,  you  must 
reply,  and,  nine  times  out  of  ten,  you  must  lie.  A 
man  or  woman  dares  to  suggest  you  are  in  love  with 
another  man's  wife  or  betrothed.  Are  you  going  to 
say  *  Yes,  I  am  '  ?  No  —  those  who  asked  the  ques- 
tion deserve  to  be  lied  to,  and  you  have  not  only  de- 
fence of  self  but  defence  of  others  to  consider.  Who 
wouldn't  lie  to  get  his  mother,  or  his  father,  or  his 
child,  or  his  lover  out  of  a  fix  ?  And  what  would  the 
world  say  to  the  man  who  told  the  truth  in  such 
cases?  " 

"  Perfection  is  impossible,  then?  We're  to  be 
headed  off  from  it  f orevermore  ?  ' ' 

"So  it  looked  to  me  three  years  ago,  but  in  your 
twenties,  three  years  is  an  age.  I've  got  beyond 
that  now.  I  stuck  there  for  a  bit,  and  then,  one  day 
— '  in  England  of  all  queer  places  —  I  started  off  again 
on  a  new  tack.  You  see  you  must  keep  tight  hold  of 
the  great  fact  that  truth  and  falsehood  are  human 
concepts,  and  you  must  not  take  either  of  them  too 
seriously.  So  I  pictured  man  on  the  uneasy  couch 
of  life  under  a  patchwork  coverlet  thrown  over  him 
by  the  Fates.  It  was  a  patchwork  of  lies  —  red  lies 
about  war,  white  lies  about  peace,  black  lies  about 


REALITY  313 

*  God's  in  His  Heaven,  all's  well  with  the  world  ' — 
green,  blue,  yellow  —  every  sort  of  fine  old  crusted 
lie.  But  as  the  pure,  colourless  light  of  day  is  only 
broken  on  the  wheel  of  the  rainbow  into  its  separate 
parts,  so  that  patchwork  of  lies,  if  we  set  it  spin- 
ning upon  the  wheel  of  history,  would  prove  to  be 
no  colour  at  all,  but  just  the  colourless  light  of  truth ! 
D'you  see  the  idea?  Truth  is  built  up  of  a  thou- 
sand, thousand  little  untruths.  It  sounds  mad,  but 
can  you  deny  it?  Truth  is  in  everything  and  noth- 
ing. Take  art  ?  It  is  all  pretence,  unreality,  fantasy, 
untruth  in  the  essence.  Realism  isn't  truth,  roman- 
ticism isn't  truth,  rationalism  isn't  truth,  supernat- 
uralism  isn't  truth.  But  the  illusion  of  truth  lurks 
in  all  these  things;  they  all  shine  true  to  somebody; 
they  all  help;  and  the  mighty  artist  would  get  the 
real  white  light  if  he  could  mingle  all  these  pigments, 
or  sing  the  very  song  of  truth  if  his  fingers  could 
reach  all  the  strings  of  the  harp.  In  philosophy  there 
will  be  a  new  pragmatism  built  out  of  this.  Once  you 
deny  truth  any  real  existence,  then  any  theory:  that 
perfection  is  impossible  because  truth  is  impossible, 
vanishes.  Truth  is  to  reality  exactly  what  alchemy 
was  to  chemistry;  and  when  our  thinkers  start  after 
reality  and  drop  truth,  we  shall  push  on  towards 
super-man. ' ' 

"  That's  quibbling,"  said  Loveday.  "  You  know 
very  well  that  people  understand  truth  and  reality  as 
one  and  the  same  thing." 

''  No,  truth  is  the  opposite  of  falsehood,"  he  said, 
*'  and  reality  is  different.  As  for  truth  and  false- 
hood, they  change  places  endlessly  while  the  world 
spins.     There's  no  finality  in  either.     The  truth  of 


814         THE  JOY  OF  YOUTH 

to-day  is  the  falsehood  of  to-morrow.  Truth  is  being 
bowled  out  every  hour,  every  moment.  It  fluctuates 
like  Consols.  We  believe  things  that  our  children 
will  laugh  at  and  our  grandfathers  would  have 
scorned.  The  shadow  that  every  truth  flings  is  a 
falsehood.  But  reality — .if  we  could  reach  to 
that—" 

"  So  now  your  greatest  good  is  reality?  "  asked 
Loveday. 

*'  For  the  moment  it  seems  a  very  fine  thing," 
he  declared.  "  But  where  shall  we  look?  Is  that 
mountain  real,  or  the  purple  bloom  upon  it,  that  all 
men  have  seen  but  no  man  has  ever  trodden  ?  Is  that 
round  cloud  real,  or  the  halo  of  light  that  circles  it, 
like  a  diadem  on  an  old  queen's  grey  hair?  " 

So  they  chattered  and  set  the  world  right ;  but  un- 
der his  sense  and  nonsense  the  man  felt  a  chill  heart, 
and  he  knew  that  her  thoughts  were  cold  also.  He 
£ould  not  choose  but  know  it  by  her  bent  head  and 
listless  mien,  by  the  effort  she  made  from  time  to 
time  to  utter  coherent  comments  on  the  things  that 
he  said;  by  her  silences  and  by  her  sighs.  Yet  the 
tumult  of  her  mind  he  little  guessed.  There  at  least 
homed  a  reality  —  a  resolve,  a  fierce,  almost  savage 
determination  on  Loveday 's  part  to  do  a  deed  of 
note. 

They  strolled  by  easy  stages  through  great  woods, 
and  they  marked  the  scenes  of  their  other  pilgrimages 
spread  round  about  them.  Then,  after  a  long  silence, 
suddenly  she  spoke.  Her  voice  throbbed  and  her 
words  stuck  together.  She  stopped,  panted,  and  be- 
gan again. 

"  It  sounds  so  strange  and  yet  it's  real  enough, 


REALITY  315 

and  I  mean  it  with  every  spark  of  strength  in  my 
body.  And  it's  right  and  fair  —  right  and  fair  — 
and  I  should  live  miserable  and  die  miserable  if  I 
didn  't  mean  it.  Who  am  I  to  say  '  nay  '  to  you  — 
you,  who  have  been  so  good  to  me  and  helped  me  to 
live  ?  I  feel  like  Galatea  — >  as  if  I  had  never  felt  my 
heart  beat  till  I  knew  you  and  came  to  life.  You 
made  the  best  part  of  me  —  at  any  rate,  you  woke  it 
up.  I  should  have  gone  on  sleeping  forever  but  for 
you,  and  —  and  before  I  go  to  sleep  again — .  It's 
little  enough,  God  knows  —  and  if  it  means  more  than 
it  ought  to  mean,  and  if  the  change  of  view  is  the 
result  of  a  deeper  change,  and  I'm  growing  base  and' 
wicked  —  I  don 't  care.  I  don 't  care  —  there  are  far 
worse  things  than  being  wicked.  Paint  me  — >  paint 
me  — ■  as  you  want  to  paint  me,  while  I  'm  worth 
painting !  Then  I  shall  have  been  beautiful  for  some- 
thing and  lived  for  something  —  not  for  nothing,  as 
I  should  live  if  you  didn't  do  it.  Make  the  best  you 
can  of  me,  and  I  wish  I  was  ten  thousand  times  more 
beautiful  for  your  sake.  You  are  a  great  artist,  and 
your  work  is  very  precious  to  me,  and  —  and  —  when 
we  part  I  shall  have  something  to  remember;  and  I 
shall  know  that  the  little  little  I  could  do  to  make 
you  happier  and  help  you  with  a  picture  I  did  do  — 
There  —  I  mean  it !  " 

For  a  few  moments  he  said  nothing,  and  heard  her 
quick  breathing  close  to  him  Avhere  they  sat  together. 
Then  he  won  self-control. 

"  You  wonderful  Loveday,"  he  said.  "  To  think 
—  here  —  now  —  wonderful  young  Loveday  !  And 
yet  not  so  wonderful  neither.  Life  is  interesting,  and 
it's  often  most  interesting  when  it's  most  damnable. 


316         THE  JOY  OF  YOUTH 

Now  I  can  look  at  you  again.  You  surprised  me.  I 
often  wondered  what  sort  of  things  we  should  say- 
to  each  other  —  at  the  finish.  I  never  thought,  some- 
how, that  you'd  ever  say  that.  And  yet,  if  I'd  been 
half  as  quick  as  I  pretend  to  be,  I  ought  to  have  seen 
it  in  your  eyes  for  a  week.*^ 

''  No,"  she  said,  "  it  only  came  to  me  like  a  flash 
—  just  after  you'd  been  talking  about  reality,  or 
something. ' ' 

She  was  calmer  again  and  her  face  at  rest. 

"  I  had  to  say  it.  It  burst  upon  me  to  say  it. 
Though  it  just  came  like  a  flash  of  lightning,  it  won't 
go  —  I  shan't  change.  There's  no  reason  why  you 
should  not  paint  me  if  you  want  to  paint  me.  There 
was  a  very  good  reason  before ;  but  none  now. ' ' 

He  looked  into  his  heart  and  read  hers.  Then  the 
tremendous  matter  within  himself  made  him  un- 
steady. He  panted  to  take  her  into  his  arms;  but 
while  the  wrong  and  the  folly  of  making  her  love 
him  had  never  struck  him,  and  the  futility  of  loving 
her  had  also  never  struck  him,  yet  in  reality,  having 
regard  for  his  own  code  as  a  man  of  honour,  the 
past  was  unutterably  futile  —  a  mere  fool 's  paradise 
entered  open-eyed  by  one  who  knew  that  it  was  a 
fool's  paradise.  He  had  deliberately  begun  to  love 
her  with  the  whole  strength  of  his  nature,  though 
common  sense  had  been  calling  again  and  again  to 
him  to  fly.  He  knew  that  she  was  not  for  him,  and 
yet  he  had  gone  on ;  he  knew  that  his  own  code  would 
never  let  honour  be  well  lost  if  only  he  could  win  her ; 
yet  he  had  gone  on.  And  now  came  the  truth  crash- 
ing in  upon  him  from  her.  She  loved  him,  too.  Here 
was  reality  and  the  need  for  an  instant  sequel. 


REALITY  317 

"  This  is  the  greatest  thing  that  has  ever  hap- 
pened on  this  mountain,"  he  said,     "  And  it  means 

—  oh,  so  much,  much  more  than  you  think  it  means. 
I  am  overwhelmed.  I  have  such  a  lot  to  say  that  I 
think  I'll  say  nothing.  That's  a  novelty  for  you. 
But  —  but  —  now  —  it's  a  subtle  tangle  —  I  don't 
think  I  can  unravel  it  in  a  moment.  Leave  it  for 
a  little  while.  I'll  think  to-night.  You've  cornered 
me,  and  I've  cornered  you,  and  —  yes  —  leave  it. 
For  the  minute  nothing  but  '  Thank  you,'  thank  you 
ten  thousand  times  for  being  —  just  your  wonderful, 
strange,  subtle  self.     It  is  glorious  of  you." 

She  grew  hot  again  and  suffered  as  she  had  never 
suffered  before.  She  knew  that  her  offer  was  not 
going  to  be  accepted  now.     But  she  did  not  know  why. 

' '  God  forgive  me  —  I  'm  a  mad  fool  —  I  don 't 
know  how  mad.     I  must  go  home  to  sane  people.     I 

—  I—" 

She  leapt  up. 

"  I  can't  sit  still.  I  want  to  jump  over  a  cliff  or 
something.  What  have  you  done?  What  have  you 
done?  I  offer,  and  you  —  you  don't  want  me  now. 
How  brutal  of  you — 'just  to  say  in  your  heart,  *  I'll 
make  her  offer,  and  then  I  '11  refuse. '  No  man  would 
have  done  that.     I  hate  you  for  it!  " 

"  You  know  that  I  couldn't  do  any  such  thing," 
he  said  calmly.  "  I  haven't  refused  your  glorious 
offer.  It  was  unutterably  beautiful  of  you  —  brave 
and  beautiful,  and  more  wonderful  every  time  I  think 
of  it.  Looking  back  I  have  felt  almost  dazed  some- 
times that  I  could  ever  ask  you;  but  that  was  be- 
fore —  I  '11  explain  presently.  I  must  explain  —  I 
know    that,     I'm    a    weak,    wicked    fool.     I'm    not 


318  THE  JOY  OF  YOUTH 

worthy  of  a  friend  like  you.  Things  happen  so  fast 
—  in  your  sleep,  I  believe  —  and  you  wake  up  and 
find  —  I'll  write  to  you,  Loveday.  It's  fearfully 
difficult,  and  I  deserve  it.  But  you  don't  —  you  don't 
deserve  to  have  one  moment's  suffering  or  trouble. 
And  don't  hate  me  till  you  hear  just  how  it  is.  If 
you  hate  me  after  you've  heard  —  then  I  shall  know 
where  I  am;  but  bottle  it  up  till  afterwards.  Don't 
go  and  waste  a  lot  of  fine,  fiery  hate  till  you  know 
if  you  mean  it.  Come  on  —  let's  rattle  down  the 
hill.  You  shall  have  my  letter  to-night  —  to  sleep 
on.     It  won't  keep  you  awake,  I  promise." 

Something  knit  into  his  words  calmed  the  woman. 
Not  the  words  but  the  pauses,  the  tones,  and  a  look 
in  his  eyes  when  he  lifted  them  to  her  eyes  again, 
comforted  her.  Yet  she  felt  there  was  no  comfort 
underneath,  for  she  knew  him. 


CHAPTER  XXXVII 

BERTRAM    TO    bOVEDAY 

**  Dear  Loveday, — 

"It  is  only  the  things  that  are  won,  or  lost, 
by  fighting  that  we  can  make  terms  about  —  not  the 
things  given  or  taken  by  love.  I  fought  to  win  you 
for  my  '  Venus  ' —  and  I  lost.  Then  you  gave  all 
that  I  had  fought  for  —  but  I  lost  again.  Of  course, 
there  could  only  be  one  reason :  I  could  only  beg  for 
that  while  I  didn't  love;  and  you  could  only  give 
it  when  you  did.  Perhaps  that  is  all  the  difference 
between  a  man  and  a  woman.  Now  I  do  love,  and  so 
I  cannot ;  and  you  love,  and  so  you  can ! 

"  Of  course,  the  most  blessed  luck  that  can  happen 
to  a  man  and  woman,  who  make  things,  is  to  come 
together.  They  see  life  and  its  values  with  the  same 
eyes;  they  know  what  matters  and  what  does  not; 
they  have  their  own  standards  and  their  own  con- 
tempts; they  brace  each  other  to  the  difficult  task 
of  living,  and  at  the  same  time  share  the  privilege 
of  being  alive.  They  are  always  showing  each  other 
good  things,  and  making  each  new  day  a  wonder  and 
each  new  place  a  wonderland.  They  heighten  each 
other's  seeing  and  sharpen  each  other's  taste;  and 
sometimes  the  man  remembers  his  chum  is  a  woman, 
and  presses  her  to  his  heart,  to  give  and  get  a  strength 
and  spark  that  only  artist  lovers  know.     Of  all  steep 


320         THE  JOY  OF  YOUTH 

ways  in  life,  that  is  the  way  where  a  man  and  woman 
can  help  each  other  most  vitally.  And  I  have 
glimpsed  it.  I  have  looked  through  the  gate  of  Para- 
dise. There  was  a  great  and  glorious  thing;  and 
though  to  enter  is  impossible,  to  have  seen  and  known 
what  the  joy  of  life  might  be  is  something. 

*'  I  am  richer  a  millionfold  for  having  known  you, 
and  I  shall  love  you  to  my  dying  day.  I  am  thank- 
ful that  you  crossed  my  path;  and  though  a  rather 
wise  person  once  said  that  we  cannot  sympathise  with 
those  happier  than  ourselves,  or  share  their  joy  — 
judging  others  by  himself,  no  doubt  —  he  is  wrong. 
I  can,  for  one,  and  I  do  —  and  I  shall  be  as  joyful 
as  a  cherub  at  the  Throne  when  I  hear  that  all  is 
well  with  you. 

"  Thank  the  gods,  there's  no  humbug  about  us. 
We  shan't  regard  Destiny  as  Manfred  did,  and  think 
its  every  footstep  a  man's  grave;  we  shan't  even  call 
its  footsteps  the  graves  of  hope  or  happiness. 

"  We've  bucked  each  other  up  terrifically,  and 
must  go  on  doing  so. 

"I'll  send  you  '  Madonna  of  the  Fire-flies  '  when 
I  get  back  to  Florence,  and  you  can  send  me  a  poem. 

"  We  must  exchange  like  that  sometimes.  I  shall 
be  off  before  you  read  this.  In  fact,  after  I  say  good- 
night, I  shall  make  my  journey. 

"  Write  to  me  when  you  get  home,  and  tell  me 
that  everything  is  all  right. 

**  Your  friend, 

"  Bertram." 

Loveday  read  her  letter  after  midnight,  and  looked 
out  of  her  window  onto  the  Lake.    The  air  had  grown 


BERTRAM  TO  LOVED  AY      321 

weary  and  had  laid  itself  down  to  rest.  A  heavy 
vapour  hid  all  form,  and  left  the  mountains  no  more 
than  amorphous  smudges  heaved  against  the  night. 
But  over  them  the  sky  domed  clear,  and  Jupiter 
swung  there  under  the  moon.  Here  pale  cloud  cirri 
swam  and  spread  their  shoals  of  brightness;  but  the 
moon  rose  clear  of  them  and  her  light,  raining  in  a 
grey  pool  upon  the  lake,  spread  thence  and  waxed 
and  broadened  until  it  broke  in  great  patines  of  sil- 
ver upon  the  shore.  It  seemed  that  the  water's  heart 
was  beating  with  gentle  systole  and  diastole,  and  there 
was  no  darkness  on  land  or  lake ;  for  the  veil  of  light, 
that  only  sparkled  and  broke  into  moon-flashes  along 
the  path  thrown  down  from  on  high,  spread  evenly 
to  irradiate  all  things.  Earth  merged  under  it  and 
was  rendered  transparent  by  the  nocturnal  sleight 
that  makes  shadow  solid  and  matter  a  shadow.  But 
along  the  confines  of  Como  glittered  earth-born  fires 
—  points  of  bright  gold  in  the  dim  dream-light  of 
the  moon. 

Great  silence  held  the  time;  then  the  bells  of 
Varenna  beat  the  hour  drowsily,  and  their  music  stole 
by  its  own  still  way  over  the  water  to  Loveday,  where 
she  looked  out  upon  the  night  with  her  letter  in  her 
hand. 


CHAPTER  XXXVIII 

loveday  to  bertram 

''  Home. 
"  Dear  Bertram, — 

"  Two  days  after  your  return  to  Firenze  I  was 
home  again.  There  were  no  flags  hung  out  to  meet 
me,  and  I  did  not  hear  any  band  at  the  station.  I 
am  inconceivably  troubled,  and  so  is  Ralegh  Vane, 
and  so  is  Lady  Vane,  and  so  is  Nina  Spedding.  , 

"  All  these  poor  people  are  waiting  for  me  to  end 
or  mend  their  tribulations.  They  regard  me  as  the 
Scandinavians  regarded  their  gods  —  hated  them,  yet 
cringed  to  their  power  —  propitiated  them  openly, 
but  rejoiced  in  secret  that  their  twilight  was  coming, 
when  they  would  suffer  as  they  had  made  men  and 
women  suffer. 

"  I  don't  know  what  I'm  saying  exactly;  I  only 
know  that  the  future  is  amazingly  difficult  for  the 
moment.  And  yet  something  must  happen  swiftly. 
The  return  of  the  native  has  precipitated  a  certain 
solution.  Things  have  happened  to  Balegh  as  well  as 
to  me.  But  he's  so  unreal,  and  honourable,  and  chiv- 
alrous, and  silly.  He  tells  me  fibs  with  his  mouth  and 
the  truth  with  his  eyes. 

"  For  God's  sake,  answer  this  as  quickly  as  you 
can,  and  tell  me  where  you  are,  and  what  you  are 
thinking  about. 


LOVEDAY  TO  BERTRAM      323 

"  This  place  seems  like  the  dream  of  a  dream  now 
— ■  a  mere  washed-out  shadow  of  reality  —  no  life,  no 
warmth,  no  colour  on  the  v.arth,  no  sun  in  the  sky  — 
nothing  but  bleak  rain  on  bleak,  black-green  trees. 
And  the  people  are  all  bleak  and  earth-coloured  and 
resigned  and  limp  and  antediluvian  and  ghostly. 
And  my  heart's  trying  to  break. 

"  Here's  a  rhyme,  but  I  don't  want  the  picture. 
Do  you  remember  the  journey  over  the  hills  by  night 
from  Firenze  to  Milan,  on  the  way  to  Como?  You 
left  us  to  smoke,  and  Stella  and  Annette  arranged 
their  little  pillows  and  slept;  and  Stella  snored;  and 
I  wrote  this. 

"  LOVEDAY. 

* '  P.  S. —  Nina  and  Ralegh  were  made  for  each  other 
from  the  beginning  of  time,  and  why  in  the  name 
of  everything  that  is  sane  and  rational  don 't  they  tell 
me  so  —  instead  of  forcing  me  to  tell  them?  You 
have  shown  me  what  it  is  to  be  hard  and  pagan  and 
clean.  But  all  the  nice  people  in  England  are  soft 
and  Christian  and  sticky." 

AN  APENNINE  NIGHT. 
Like  to  a  yellow  rose  the  drooping  moon 
Bowed  down  and  withered  till  her  earth-born  light 
Died  on  the  dusky  mountains;  all  the  boon 
Of  dreaming  silver  that  a  suppliant  night 
Had  won  from  Heaven  was  gone,  and  now  the  dome 
Of  every  hill,  the  darkling  slopes  of  vine, 
Glimmering  ghostly,  and  each  silent  home 
Of  sleeping  man  awaited  the  chill  sign 
That  night  was  done.     But  yet  her  ancient  lease 
Held  over  earth  even  unto  the  hills, 
Whose  scented  forest  wings   upon  the   peace 
Of  the  deep,  starry  sky  were  pluming.     Rills 


324  THE  JOY  OF  YOUTH 

Threw  out  their  loops  of  foam,  that  turned  and  glanced 

Where,  underneath  linked  arms  of  forest  trees, 

There  sparkled  lamps,  as  though  the  fairies  danced 

To  magic  music.     Such  festivities 

The  frolic  fire-flies  used  in  nightly  glades 

When  their  brief,  winking  trails  of  light  were  shown 

Environing  with  golden-green  the  shades 

Where  sang  a  nightingale  upon  his  throne 

Of  myrtle.     While  the  bird  deliciously 

Set  silence  tingling  till  the  very  leaves 

Kissed  one  another  in  an  ecstasy, 

The  living  light  dripped  through  their  dewy  sheaves 

And  came  and  went  and  came  and  went  as  when 

Small  stars  peep  out  from  rack  of  cloudy  sky 

Twinkling  and  vanishing.     But  quickly  then, 

Elves  of  the  Apennine,  your  hour  slipt  by. 

And  one  by  one  your  tiny  tapers  died; 

Ye  hid  yourselves  from  the  prophetic  east 

Where,  through  the  purple  now  there  stole  and  sighed 

A  whisper  and  a  tremor.     The  bird  ceased 

His  love-song  sweet;  the  firmament  grew  pale  — 

Pale  as  old  ivory;   but  soon  its  face 

Was  blushing,  and  each  far-flung  ridge  and  dale. 

Hill  and  lush  valley,  drank  the  dawn  apace. 

Light  sped  on  roseal  wings  where  rivers  flow. 

To  set  their  wrinkled  shallows  all  afire 

With  amber  flame;  from  heaven's  golden  bow 

Sped  arrows   into  heaven,   higher   and   higher. 

Until  the  aged  mountains  met  young  day. 

To  each  upsoaring  crown  and  verdant  head. 

Where  rolled  the  green,  green  forest's  panoply 

He  leapt;  and  earth  was  glad  to  feel  his  tread. 


CHAPTER  XXXIX 

beetram  to  loveday 

"  Monte  Generosa,  Lugano. 
"  Dear  Loveday, — 

"  Hastings  Forbes  has  become  an  agnostic,  and 
his  wife  has  gone  to  Milan  for  a  week  to  hear  a  new 
opera,  Fordyce  —  you  remember  him  at  the  Mackin- 
ders  —  was  good  enough  to  take  her.  Probably 
Forbes  would  have  done  better  to  stick  to  Marcus 
Aurelius.  He's  not  a  freethinker  really  —  merely  a 
non-thinker.  He's  discovered  Rationalism,  as  a  boy 
discovers  a  bird's-nest,  and  is  running  about  shouting 
Huxley  and  Spencer.  Wasn't  it  little  Jack  Horner 
who  pulled  a  plum  out  of  the  pie  and  thought  him- 
self clever?  I  think,  in  his  poor  futile  mind,  Forbes 
imagines  that  Rationalism  condones  the  lady,  and  jus- 
tifies his  conduct  before  the  world.  There  are  fools 
who  seem  to  fancy  it  gives  them  leave  to  be  loose; 
whereas  in  truth  there's  nothing  stricter  than  Ra- 
tionalism. Philosophy  isn't  an  everlasting  compen- 
sation, as  one  finds  very  easily  just  now. 

"  I've  fled  Firenze,  and  come  up  here  to  breathe 
clean  air  and  get  face  to  face  with  reality.  There  is 
a  variety  of  people  stopping  here,  and  for  the  most 
part  they  are  intelligent  lovers  of  art.  It's  strange 
what  a  steadfast  touchstone  she  is:  to  Germans  and 
Frenchmen,  the  bread  of  life  —  food ;  to  Italians,  the 


326  THE  JOY  OF  YOUTH 

wine  of  life  —  stimulant;  to  English  —  what?  A 
coarse  narcotic  to  help  kill  their  time  — •  painlessly. 
They  neither  ask  nor  want  more  from  it  than  a  mean 
distraction.  Foggazaro  used  to  work  near  here,  and 
the  ground  he  trod  is  hallowed  to  an  Italian.  Ground 
in  England  is  merely  marketable  or  worthless  —  never 
holy  —  whoever  has  trodden  it. 

"  Don't  laugh  —  I'm  ill.  Nerves  all  over  the  shop ; 
conceit  gone,  vanity  gone,  unsufferable  power  of  self- 
assertion  gone,  belief  in  myself  gone,  inspiration 
gone.  You  naturally  ask  what  is  left?  There  was 
nothing  until  I  got  your  letter  and  *  The  Apennine 
Night.'  I  showed  the  poem  to  an  Englishman  up 
here,  who  understands  the  technique  of  poetry,  and 
he  said  it  was  jolly  promising  for  a  young  thing. 
To  me  it  is  a  glimpse  of  j-ou. 

"  Write  and  tell  me  if  the  sun  begins  to  warm  you 
again  and  the  mud-coloured  people  grow  less  ghostly. 

"  You  don't  mention  my  only  friend  in  the  West 
Country.     I  refer  to  Fry. 

"  Well,  of  course,  I'm  tragically  interested  in  all 
you  tell  me.  Your  letter  is  merely  an  instalment  of 
a  tremendous  story.  It  seems  that  Sir  Kalegh  can 
say  '  Nor  have  I  been  idle  during  your  absence,  my 
lady !  ' 

"  So  it 's  '  up  to  him  '  now  —  a  sweet  American  ex- 
pression meaning  that  it  is  his  turn  to  play. 

' '  There 's  a  man  here  —  an  architect  —  sane  ex- 
cepting when  the  wind's  south.  Then  he  believes 
that  the  decorations  of  heaven  will  be  English 
Gothic ! 

*'  I'm  at  a  low  ebb,  and  can't  work.  All  sense 
wants  continued  stimulating,  you  see.     Take  '  touch.' 


BERTRAM  TO  LOVEDAY,     327, 

You  hold  a  woman's  hand  in  yours  —  hold  it  pas- 
sively, and  sense  will  quickly  cease,  so  that  you  might 
as  well  be  holding  a  piece  of  wood.  Not  till  you 
squeeze  the  hand  and  so  set  your  nerves  acting  again 
are  you  conscious  of  what  you  hold.  And  feeling 
wants  stimulating,  too.  My  ears  throb  awfully  for 
the  sound  of  your  voice.  They  are  the  hungriest  part 
of  me,  for  your  face  I  know  better  than  my  own; 
but  your  voice  I  ache  to  hear.  I  shall  grow  deaf  for 
want  of  it  presently. 

"  '  With  the  breath  of  the  four  seasons  in  one's 
breast,  one  will  be  able  to  create  on  paper.'  Th<at 
was  written  by  a  Chinaman  in  1680.  Perhaps  it's 
true ;  but  you  must  know  what  you  are  breathing,  and 
you  must  also  happen  to  be  an  artist.  D'you  think 
conscious  existence  is  really  possible  without  the  cre- 
ative instinct?  Mine  is  dead,  anyway,  and  I  feel 
ever  so  much  smaller  in  body  and  in  mind.  I  was 
wondering  what  had  gone,  and  I  found  that  every- 
thing was  lost  excepting  hope.  And  much  that's 
worthless  you've  helped  me  to  lose  forever,  thank  the 
gods.  But  all  the  really  live  part  of  me  —  all  that 
matters  —  is  wrapped  up  in  a  parcel  and  in  your 
charge. 

**  If  you  can't  bring  it  back,  at  any  rate  don't  lose 
it.  But  —  can  you  bring  it  back  ?  You  see  that  this 
is  all  an  answer  to  your  letter. 

"  I  understand  most  perfectly  and  thoroughly 
what  you  have  gone  through  and  what  you  have  had 
to  pay  for  escaping  your  original  environment  and 
coming  out  here.  And  now  it  remains  to  be  seen 
whether  the  game  was  worth  the  candle. 

*'  What  is  it  that  makes  the  English  so  sentimen- 


328  THE  JOY  OF  YOUTH 

tal  and  so  infernally  business-like  and  sordid  all  in 
a  breath?  The  same  man  will  blow  his  nose  over 
some  stupid,  sentimental  play,  and,  next  morning,  jew 
his  brother  and  devour  widows'  houses.  The  English 
are  soft  and  hard  in  streaks  —  as  chalk  and  flint  hap- 
pen together. 

"  Of  course,  your  postscript  is  terrific.  I  suppose 
I  may  repeat  it :  that  Sir  Ralegh  has  found  a  woman 
better  suited  to  him  than  the  new  Loveday  Merton, 
but  is  so  cowed  by  the  old  values  that  he  cannot,  for 
his  high,  fine  honour,  say  so. 

"  Your  letter  has  a  great  *  curtain,'  as  the  theatri- 
cal people  say.  Where  does  the  next  act  take  place? 
A'nd,  above  all,  who  will  play  in  it?  If  I  knew  — 
Oh,  I  want  to  say  ten  thousand  things,  but  cannot 
till  Vane  has  spoken.     Shall  I  come  and  see  him? 

"  Bertram. 

' '  One  sees  the  whole  world  from  up  here  —  includ- 
ing Como  and  the  familiar  climbs.  I  looked  across 
at  Grigna  yesterday,  and  thought  of  the  mule  and  his 
steel  shoes." 


CHAPTER  XL 

THE  IMMENSITIES 

Marguerite  Hetich  declared  afterwards  that  she  had 
never  spent  such  a  day  before,  and  never  wanted  to 
spend  such  another. 

"  At  nine  o'clock,"  wrote  Marguerite  to  a  friend 
in  Switzerland,  ' '  we  reached  Baveno  —  after  a  night 
without  sleep,  because  Mademoiselle  would  talk. 
Then  we  took  a  steamer  across  Lago  Maggiore  to 
Luino;  and  then  a  little  train  to  Ponte  Tresa;  and 
then  a  steamer  to  Melide,  on  Lago  Lugano ;  and  then 
another  steamer  to  Capolago ;  and  then  a  little  train, 
that  climbed  like  a  squirrel  up  and  up  and  up  to 
Monte  Generoso,  in  the  clouds.  Then  a  little  tram 
pulled  by  a  horse  through  a  wood ;  and  then  we  were 
there.  I  was  dead;  Mademoiselle  woke  up  and  be- 
gan to  live.  He  was  out  somewhere  on  the  mountain, 
so  off  she  went  without  a  cup  of  tea,  and  presently, 
when  she  had  been  gone  an  hour,  it  grew  very  dark, 
and  the  black  clouds  pressed  their  faces  up  to  the 
hotel,  and  the  thunder  shouted  and  the  lightning 
flashed.  Of  course,  I  wanted  to  rush  out  and  find 
her;  but  where?  " 

In  truth,  Marguerite  might  have  been  forgiven  for 
faint-heartedness. 

Loveday,  on  reaching  her  destination,  had  learned 
that  Bertram  was  away  painting  upon  the  mountains. 


Sao         THE  JOY  OF  YOUTH 

She  set  out,  therefore,  instantly  to  seek  him,  and 
trusted  chance  to  bring  them  together. 

The  storm  broke  upon  her  high  on  the  hills  beyond 
shelter;  and  it  swept  her,  soaked  her,  and  bewildered 
her.  The  lightning  seemed  to  tear  at  the  roots  of 
the  precipices  beside  her,  and  the  thunder  shook  them. 
She  cowered  like  a  bird  under  a  hawk,  then  rose  and 
turned  to  get  back.  The  storm  stalked  away  north- 
ward, and  the  sun  shone  again.  Now,  quite  lost,  she 
roamed  on  where  woods  spread  under  the  crest  of 
the  hill,  and  then,  at  the  edge  of  larch  and  birch  that 
hung  steeply  upon  the  mountain,  in  a  little  grassy 
clearing,  she  found  Dangerfield.  Purple  gentian 
and  orange  arnica  blossomed  at  his  feet,  and  behind 
him  white  buttercups  starred  the  gloom  of  the 
thicket. 

He  was  painting  flowers — r  great  pink  peonies  with 
breaking  buds,  and  one  open  chalice  of  bright  rose 
in  which  the  gold  of  its  own  stamens  were  drowned 
with  the  silver  of  the  rain. 

He  had  sheltered  under  the  wood  and  so  escaped 
the  storm;  he  rose,  stared  at  her,  doubted  his  senses, 
and  then  grew  unsteady  and  set  his  back  against  a 
tree. 

She  eiame  and  put  her  hand  into  his.  They  were 
both  haggard  and  wild-eyed ;  but  contact  sent  a  spark 
of  strength  through  the  man  and  flushed  the  girl's 
cheek. 

For  a  moment  they  were  silent. 

"  I've  come  to  you,"  she  said.  "  It's  all  over. 
I  had  to  do  everything  myself.  There's  only  one 
difference  between  Ralegh  and  me :  he  thought  he  had 
committed  some  sort  of  sin  in  finding  that  he  loved 


THE  IMMENSITIES  331 

Nina  better  than  he  loved  me;  I  never  thought  I 
had  sinned  when  I  found  —  what  I  found." 

Dangerfield  was  much  more  moved  than  she. 

"  Fry  stood  out  for  me.  Your  aunt  declared  that 
I  had  gone  to  Italy  a  pleasant  girl  and  come  back  an 
impossible  woman." 

Still  he  was  dumb. 

**  Did  you  know  I  should  come  to  you?  " 

"  I  prayed  Pan  that  you  might  want  me  to  come 
to  you.  But  I  didn't  know.  I've  been  in  hell  a 
long  time." 

"  They  said  at  Firenze  you  had  no  soul,  Bertram. 
But  it's  looking  out  of  your  eyes  now." 

*'  You  only  see  the  reflection  of  your  own,"  he 
answered. 

"  I  will  find  yours  for  you.  Love  has  found  many 
a  hiding  soul  and  brought  it  to  light.  And  yours  is 
so  young  still." 

He  kissed  her  hand  but  answered  nothing,  and 
stared  like  a  child  at  her.  She  began  dimly  to  guess 
the  size  of  his  experience. 

"  If  you  knew  what  a  stupid  wretch  you've  come 
back  to  — "  he  murmured  presently.  ' '  Love  throws 
such  a  pitiless  light  on  oneself.  The  real  thing  is  an 
awful  thing." 

' '  Yes  —  like  these  precipices ;  but  they  build  up 
the  mountains.  It's  worth  all  the  rest  of  life  put 
together  to  feel  what  we  feel  now." 

"  Most  of  the  people  who  think  they  love  have  only 
seen  love's  shadow  on  the  grass,"  he  said. 

They  held  each  other's  hands  and  looked  at  the 
world. 

The   distance   of   snow   and   cloud   was   so   inter- 


332  THE  JOY  OF  YOUTH 

wreathed  that  only  by  their  forms,  now  fleeced  and 
rounded,  now  jagged  and  clean-cut,  might  one  sepa- 
rate earth  from  air.  Shadow  and  sunshine  homed  on 
each  alike,  and  clouds  and  snow  flung  one  huge  gir- 
dle from  south  to  north  —  a  diadem  whose  jewels  were 
Monte  Rosa  and  the  Mischabel,  the  Breithom  and 
Jungfrau.  Already  roses  of  evening  began  to  bud 
among  the  glaciers'  dim  green  eyes;  but  from  Italy 
might  only  be  marked  a  brightness  of  clear  sky  above 
that  wreath  of  mountain  and  cloud  —  a  brightness 
that  descended  and  penetrated  the  vapour  and  shone 
lustrous  azure  through  its  tatters.  The  blue  was 
barred  and  broken  at  the  zenith  by  leagues  of  cloud, 
white  and  level;  while  in  lower  currents  of  air,  yet 
high  above  the  earth,  there  rolled  more  clouds,  that 
mimicked  on  a  mighty  scale  the  mountains  beneath 
them.  The  rolling  hills  of  the  middle  distance  were 
green  and  blue,  and  amid  their  folds  glittered  Mag- 
giore  and  Lugano,  with  many  a  flash  and  twinkle  of 
lesser  lakes,  like  precious  stones  suspended  from  the 
jewel  of  the  great  waters.  So  mighty  was  the  scene, 
so  immense  the  heavens  and  far-flung  the  earth,  that 
every  mood  of  air,  from  storm  to  sunshine,  from  dark- 
ness to  light,  from  fierce  movement  to  dreaming  peace, 
was  presented  upon  it. 

Here  burnt  the  setting  sun  over  green  hills  and 
blue  waters,  where  the  little  ships,  shrunk  to  water- 
flies,  oared  over  the  sapphire ;  here,  like  a  flock  of  birds, 
grey  cloudlets  circled  the  crags  and  precipices,  thrust 
out  from  the  mountain  and  swam  away  upon  the  air; 
here  a  great  rainbow  light,  tangled  in  delicate,  aerial 
architecture  of  fire  and  vapour,  swept  over  the  west- 
ern heaven ;  and  here  the  thunderstorm  that  had  just 


THE  IMMEiS^SlTIES  333 

broken,  winged  to  the  San  Gotthard  and  retreated  — 
a  huge,  cowled  shape  of  darkness,  under  the  diamond- 
bright  arches  of  the  lightning. 

To  see  the  way  that  worlds  are  built  one  must  climb 
as  high  as  this ;  but  Bertram  and  young  Loveday  now 
looked  back  from  earth  into  the  mightier  worlds  of 
their  own  eyes. 

'*  Twin  stars  forever  and  ever  and  ever!  "  he  said. 

*'  The  sun  and  a  little  moon,"  she  answered. 

They  kissed  each  other,  and  the  kiss  was  as  long 
as  the  whole  life  of  many  creatures  that  live  on 
earth. 


THE  END 


By  the  author  of ' '  The  Joy  of  Youth  " 


WIDECOMBE  FAIR 


By  EDEN  PHILLPOTTS 

12rao.     Cloth.     $1.35  ne« 


Thoroughly  delightful.  ...  A  book  to  read  leisurely 
and  deeply  enjoy.  —  The  Outlook,  N.  Y. 

A  human  comedy,  neither  tragic  nor  sordid,  but  essentially 
humorous.  —  Chicago  Record-Herald. 

The  best  of  all  the  remarkable  books  that  have  come  from 
Mr.  Phillpotts'  pen.  —  Philadelphia  Ledger. 

This  "  comedie  humaine  "  is  one  of  the  biggest  achievements 
in  contemporary  literature.  —  Continent,  Chicago. 

Mr.  Phillpotts  has  crowned  his  Dartmoor  stories  with  a  book 
which  is  strong  in  beauty.  — Athenaeum,  London. 

It  is  marked  by  excellent  phrase  and  abounding  humor.  Its 
dramatic  quality  is  remarkable.  It  has  imagination.  The 
poet's  touch  is  in  it.  —  New  York  Sun. 


LITTLE,  BROWN,  &  CO.,  Publishers 
34  Beacon  Street,  Boston 


S/  7  7 
3'^ 


THE  LIBRARY 
UNIVERSITY  OF  CALIFORNIA 

Santa  Barbara 


THIS  BOOK  IS  DUE  ON  THE  LAST  DATE 
STAMPED  BELOW. 


UC  SOUTHERN  REGIONAL  LIBRARY  FACILITY 


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